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GERALD  BULLETT 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT 

From  Che  Library  of 

Henry  Goldman,   Ph.D. 

1886-1972 


THE    STREET   OF   THE   EYE 

AND   NINE    OTHER   TALES 


THE  STREET 

OF  THE 

EYE 

and  nine  other  tales 

by    GERALD     BULLETT 


BONI  AND  LIVERIGHT 

PUBLISHERS       NEW  YORK 


Made  end  Printed  in  Great  Britain  by  Butler  &  Tanner,  Frame,  and  London 


Annex 


To  ROSALIND 
—THESE  FICTIONS 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  STREET  OF  THE  EYE     .....  3 

SLEEPING  BEAUTY -45 

THE  ENCHANTED  MOMENT    .....  59 

THE  MOLE  ........  79 

A  SENSITIVE  MAN         ......  97 

Miss  LETTICE 113 

WEDDING-DAY 135 

DEARTH'S  FARM 145 

THE  GHOST          .......  169 

THE  HOUSE  AT  MAADI  : 

Part  I:  AN  AFTERNOON  IN  APRIL  .  .  181 
Part  II :  SHEILA  DYRLE  .  .  .  .189 
Part  III :  SHEILA  FAIRFIELD  ....  266 
Part  IV  :  EVENING  OF  THE  SAME  DAY  .  .  299 


One  of  these  stones,  THE  MOLE,  appeared  in  '  The  London 
Mercury.'     To  the  editor  of  this  journal  I  tender  thanks. 


Vll 


THE    STREET   OF  THE   EYE 


S.E. 


THE     STREET    OF    THE    EYE 

TORIES  of  the  supernatural,'  said  Saun- 
ders, '  serve  at  least  one  useful  purpose  : 
they  test  a  man's  intellectual  capacity.  Not 
a  very  sure  test,  you  may  say  ;  but  for  pur- 
poses of  rough  classification  it  is  sure  enough. 
Incertitude,  a  sense  of  imminent  surprise,  is 
after  all  the  very  salt  of  life.  Denounce  the 
habit  of  classification  as  bitterly  as  you  like 
— and  I  know  well  the  intellectual  perils  that 
attend  it — it  is  none  the  less  true  that  we  do, 
when  we  meet  a  man,  like  to  be  able  to  place 
him,  roughly,  in  this  category  or  that.  And 
most  men,  by  the  way,  submit  to  the  process 
very  meekly.  You  subtle  folk  ' — here  Saun- 
ders  bowed  to  me  in  genial  irony — '  in  attribut- 
ing to  the  mass  of  mankind  your  own  mental 
complexity  flatter  them  grossly.  I  have  heard 
you  yourself  discourse  on  the  folly  of  the 
old  religious  psychology  which  divided  man- 
kind, arbitrarily,  into  sheep  and  goats.  As 
philosophy,  of  course,  it  is  nonsense,  and  the 
fathers  of  the  church  must  have  known  that 

3 


4       THE    STREET    OF    THE    EYE 

as  well  as  you  and  I  do  ;  but  as  a  formula 
for  rough-and-ready  justice,  it  serves.  If  you 
are  pulling  your  weight  in  the  boat  you  are  a 
good  man  ;  if  you  are  not  pulling  your  weight 
you  are  a  bad  man — that  is  a  definite  and 
verifiable  verdict  based  on  rational  calculation. 
The  fun  begins  when  having  made  our  calcu- 
lation, and  acted  on  it,  new  factors  begin  to 
appear  which  knock  all  our  arithmetic  silly. 
But  in  our  dealings  with  men  how  rarely, 
on  the  whole,  that  happens  !  You  do  not 
agree  ?  Well,  you  are  permitted  to  disagree 
so  long  as  you  believe  me  to  be  sincere  in  my 
opinion.  All  modern  thought,  I  know,  is 
moving  away  from  my  idea  as  fast  as,  according 
to  you,  it  is  moving  away  from  my  church  ; 
but  I  fancy  that,  in  practice,  the  world  will 
continue  to  adhere  to  it.  If  I  were  to  say 
that  all  men  are  types,  that  would  be  not  so 
much  a  falsehood  as  a  wanton  exaggeration  of 
a  truth.  I  know  all  that  can  be  urged,  and 
justly  urged,  against  pigeon-hole  classification  ; 
but  what  impresses  and  startles  me  is  how 
easily  the  greater  number  of  one's  fellow- 
creatures  fit  into  the  pigeon-holes.  Unique 
souls,  no  doubt  ;  but  the  human  soul  is  a 
mystery  which  I  don't  profess  to  understand 
and  which  you  profess  not  to  believe  in.  It 
is  the  ordinary  workaday  mentality  of  a  man 


THE    STREET    OF    THE    EYE       5 

that  can  be  labelled  with  some  approach  to 
accuracy.  And  the  supernatural  story,  as  I 
say,  is  something  of  a  test.  Tell  a  group  of 
new  acquaintances  some  fairly  well  authenti- 
cated ghost-story,  and  they  will  fall  apart  and 
regroup  in  their  special  classes  like  a  company 
of  soldiers  forming  up  into  platoons.  There 
will  be  the  credulous  fools  on  the  one  hand, 
ready  to  believe  anything  without  question  ; 
there  will  be  the  materialist  fools  on  the  other 
hand,  snorting  in  angry  contempt.  Between 
the  two — truth  is  generally  found  midway 
between  extremes — between  the  two,  pre- 
serving a  delicate  balance  between  scepticism 
and  credulity,  doubting  the  story,  perhaps, 
but  admitting  the  possibility,  will  be  the  wise 
men.  I  need  hardly  add,  my  dear  fellow,  that 
it  is  among  these  wise  philosophers  that  I 
myself  am  to  be  found.  There  you  have 
three  well-defined  types,  and  it  is  noteworthy 
that  I  am  a  bright  specimen  of  the  exemplary 
type.  If  you  wish  to  be  saved  you  have  only 
to  look  at  me  and  do  your  best.' 

There  was  a  gleam  of  laughter  in  Saunders's 
kindly  and  humorous  eyes,  a  gleam  that  seemed 
to  apologize  for  having  read  me  something  in 
the  nature  of  a  lecture.  I  had  just  told  my 
clerical  friend  that  queer  story  of  Bailey's  about 
James  Dearth  and  the  white  horse.  It  had 


6       THE     STREET    OF    THE    EYE 

interested  him,  and  he  was  far  more  disposed 
to  take  it  seriously  than  I  was.  It  started 
him  talking  about  the  Unseen,  a  hypothesis 
in  which  he  has  a  more  than  professional 
concern,  and  so  led  him  to  the  bundle  of 
generalities  I  have  just  recorded.  They 
impressed  me  less  than  Saunders's  remarks 
usually  do,  but  I  knew  better  than  to  interrupt 
him.  Whatever  be  the  truth  about  his  theory 
of  types,  he  himself  is  certainly  a  distinguished 
exception  to  the  theory.  One  never  knows 
where  his  talk  will  lead,  and  I  for  my  part 
always  listen  in  the  hope  that  it  will  lead  to  a 
story.  Saunders,  with  his  penetrating  vision 
and  his  unique  opportunities,  has  seen  many 
a  naked  soul,  many  a  human  creature  stripped 
bare,  by  triumph  or  catastrophe,  of  the  cover- 
ings that  hide  it  from  the  public  eye — yes,  and 
from  the  eyes  of  intimate  friends  no  less.  He 
is  as  full  of  good  stories  as  of  bad  sermons. 
And  so  I  waited  now,  like  a  timid  angler 
afraid  even  to  cast  in  his  line  lest  the  troubling 
of  the  waters  should  scare  the  fish  away. 

'  The  surface  mind  is  dull  enough,'  continued 
Saunders  presently,  *  dull  enough  to  justify  a 
label.  It  is  the  mysterious  region  below 
consciousness,  the  rich,  dark,  infinitely  fertile 
subsoil,  that  passes  the  wit  of  man  to  under- 
stand. For  the  most  part,  one  can  only 


THE     STREET    OF    THE    EYE        7 

reach  it  by  vague  conjecture.  But  sometimes, 
here  and  there,  some  beautiful  or  terrible 
flower  shoots  up  from  that  underworld  into 
the  light  of  our  conscious  existence.  As  for 
your  friend's  experiences  at  the  farm,  I  think, 
frankly,  that  there  was  sheer  devilry  in  it, 
black  magic.  But  it  isn't  always  so.  You 
remember  what  I  told  you  about  poor  Bel- 
lingham.' 

In  the  pause  that  followed,  my  hopes 
flourished  exceedingly.  Then  I  hastened  to 
assure  Saunders  that  he  had  told  me  precisely 
nothing  at  all  about  poor  Bellingham,  whose 
name  I  heard  for  the  first  time.  And  so, 
with  a  little  coaxing,  I  got  the  tale  from 
him. 


By  one  of  those  fantastic  coincidences  that 
make  life  sometimes  seem  more  artificial  than 
fiction,  as  well  as  stranger  (said  Saunders), 
it  was  in  a  little  cafe  in  Rue  de  1'Oeil,  Mar- 
seilles, that  I  first  noticed  Bellingham.  Strange 
that  one  should  have  to  journey  to  the  south 
of  France  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  a 
fellow-collegian  !  For  Bellingham,  too,  was 
a  Jesus  man.  I  had  nodded  to  him  a  hundred 
times  in  the  Close,  walked  with  him  once  or 


8       THE     STREET    OF    THE    EYE 

twice  for  a  few  hundred  yards,  and  passed  him 
every  day  in  the  Chimney  going  to  or  from 
lectures  ;  but  I  knew  next  to  nothing  of  him. 
Once,  I  remember,  we  met  in  the  rooms  of 
some  other  fellow  and  had  coffee.  Furnivall 
was  there,  who  afterwards  made  something  of 
a  hit  as  an  actor  ;  Dodd  who  got  a  double 
first  in  classics  and  then,  before  the  results 
were  out,  accidentally  drowned  himself  within 
sight  of  Trinity  Library  ;  Chambers  who, 
under  a  Greek  pseudonym,  wrote  donnish 
elderly  witticisms  for  undergraduate  journals. 
Looking  back  on  that  inauspicious  scene  I 
know  that  not  one  of  the  men  I  have  named 
possessed  half  the  spiritual  force  of  Bellingham, 
and  yet,  had  it  not  been  for  after-events,  I 
should  not  now  have  remembered  that  he 
was  there  at  all.  He  was  a  tall  slackly-built 
man,  rather  like  a  black  sackful  of  unco- 
ordinated bones  ;  he  stooped  a  little,  peering 
out  at  the  world  under  long  bushy  eyebrows 
from  behind  a  large  nose.  The  mouth  was 
large  and  loose  ;  the  cheeks  sagged  a  trifle  ; 
the  ears  stuck  out  from  the  head  at  an  angle 
that,  if  you  looked  twice,  seemed  excessive  ; 
and  the  hands  were  big  and  bony  with  long 
fingers  that  moved,  sometimes,  like  a  piece  of 
murderous  mechanism.  It  was  as  if  the  hands 
of  a  strangler  had  been  grafted  on  to  the  body 


THE     STREET    OF    THE    EYE       9 

of  a  morose,  ungainly  saint.  I  do  not  describe 
him  as  he  appeared  to  me  in  that  college  room  : 
that  would  be  impossible,  for  I  simply  didn't 
observe  him.  He  was  no  more  to  me  then 
than  an  uninteresting  ultra-reserved  fellow- 
student  drudging  at  ecclesiastical  history  and 
similar  stuff.  That  I  failed  to  single  him  out 
is  sufficiently  amazing  to  me  now.  My  eyes 
must  have  been  in  my  boots.  But  there  it  is 
— he  made  no  impression  on  my  somnolent 
mind.  It  was  not,  as  I  say,  until  we  met 
again  in  that  little  caffe  in  Rue  de  1'Oeil 
that  I  really  saw  Bellingham.  For  the  thou- 
sandth time  I  looked  at  him  and  for  the  first 
time  I  saw  him.  There  was  quite  a  little 
crowd  of  us  :  Hayter  of  Caius  ;  Mulroyd 
with  his  soft  voice  and  Irish  cadences  ;  an 
Oxford  man  whose  name  I've  forgotten  ;  and 
the  Honourable  Somebody,  a  mild-mannered, 
flaxen-haired  boy,  a  Fabian  socialist  trying  to 
live  down  the  fact  that  he  was  the  younger 
son  of  a  peer.  But  I'm  forgetting  myself  : 
these  people  are  merely  names  to  you,  and 
names  they  must  remain.  The  Oxonian  was  a 
chance  acquaintance  who  had  encountered  our 
party  in  Paris  and  diffidently  joined  us,  a 
charming  fellow  who  constantly  tried — only 
too  successfully,  for  he  remains  in  my  memory 
as  the  vaguest  phantom — to  efface  himself. 


io     THE    STREET    OF    THE    EYE 

Hayter,  whose  chief  preoccupation,  I  remem- 
ber, was  the  maturing  of  a  new  Meerschaum, 
played  the  elder  brother  to  the  flaxen-haired 
youngster.  Mulroyd  was  my  own  particular 
friend,  and  it  was  he  who  had  dragged  in 
Bellingham,  the  misfit  of  the  party.  Belling- 
ham  was  a  curiously  solitary  man,  a  ward  in 
Chancery  or  something  of  the  kind  ;  no  one 
knew  anything  about  his  origin  or  antecedents, 
and  he  had  no  friends.  The  suspicion  that 
he  was  lonely,  neglected,  with  nowhere  to 
spend  the  Long  Vacation,  made  him  irresistible 
to  Mulroyd  ;  and  that  he  was  conspicuously 
unsociable  Mulroyd  regarded  as  a  clarion  call 
of  challenge  to  his  own  militant  kindliness. 
Well,  there's  a  rough  sketch  of  the  crowd  that 
gathered  in  that  little  red-tiled,  black-raftered, 
French  hostel.  You  must  imagine  us  all  as 
sitting  or  standing  about  the  place,  in  various 
negligent  attitudes,  drinking  execrable  vin 
rouge^  and  talking  of  routes  and  train-services 
and  the  comparative  merits  of  ales.  What 
turned  the  conversation  towards  more  ultimate 
matters  I  cannot  begin  to  remember,  but  turn 
it  did.  I  think  it  was  our  Oxonian  who 
interpolated  some  gloomy  observation  that  set 
us  all  thinking  of  a  brooding,  inscrutable 
Destiny  which  for  ever  watched,  with  hard 
unblinking  eyes,  our  trivial  conviviality,  lis- 


THE    STREET    OF    THE    EYE      n 

tened,  with  infinite  indifference,  to  our  plans 
of  to-day  and  to-morrow.  The  remark  was 
succeeded  by  a  pause  that  was  almost  a  col- 
lective shudder,  a  pause  in  which,  as  it  seemed 
to  me,  we  all  listened  fixedly  to  our  own 
heart-beats  ticking  away  the  handful  of  mo- 
ments that  divided  us  from  an  unknown 
eternity.  You  know  what  it  is  to  be  recalled 
suddenly,  wantonly,  to  a  sense  of  the  immen- 
sities, to  be  aware  that  death,  an  invisible 
presence,  is  in  your  midst,  to  feel  his  lethal 
breath  chilling  the  warmth  of  your  idle  joy. 
Even  Madeleine,  the  daughter  of  the  house, 
who  had  watched  us  hitherto  with  laughter 
in  her  dark  eyes,  and  innocent  invitation  on 
her  full  lips,  was  conscious  of  the  abrupt 
change  of  temperature.  She  understood  not 
a  word  of  our  speech,  but  out  of  the  corner 
of  my  eye  I  saw  her  hand  make  the  sign  of 
the  cross  and  her  lips  move  in  prayer.  Hayter, 
shockheaded,  long  and  oval  of  face,  ceased 
fingering  his  pipe  and  seemed  lost  in  contem- 
plation of  its  mellowing  colour.  A  wistful 
light  shone  in  Mulroyd's  eyes.  The  Honour- 
able Somebody — I  can't  recall  his  name — 
smiled  and  said  '  Um.'  In  that  pregnant 
moment  during  which  we  all  sat  peering  over 
the  edge  of  the  unfathomable,  questioning  the 
unresponsive  darkness,  that  monosyllable 


12      THE    STREET    OF    THE    EYE 

sounded  like  an  incantation,  a  word  mystical 
and  potent.  As  for  me,  I  looked  from  one 
face  to  the  other,  trying  to  read  what  was 
written  there,  and  so  my  glance  fell  upon 
Bellingham.  Fell  and  was  arrested,  for  the 
face  of  Bellingham  was  a  revelation.  What 
it  revealed  is  difficult  to  describe  in  cold 
prose  ;  a  musician  could  better  express  it  in 
some  moaning,  unearthly  phrase  of  music. 
It  was  as  if  there  shone  from  that  face  not 
light  but  darkness,  and  as  if  over  that  head 
hovered  a  halo  of  dark  fear,  a  crown  of  shud- 
dering doom.  The  eyes  flashed  darkness,  I 
say,  and  yet  through  them,  as  through  sinister 
windows,  I  saw  for  one  instant  into  the  infinite 
distances  of  the  soul  behind  them,  the  un- 
imaginable and  secret  world  in  which  the  real 
Bellingham,  the  Bellingham  whom  none  of  us 
in  that  room  had  ever  seen  or  approached, 
lived  his  isolated  life.  He  was  leaning  for- 
ward, elbows  on  knees,  his  chin  propped  up  in 
those  gaunt  skeleton  hands  that  were  several 
sizes  too  big  for  him.  To  me,  who  stood 
facing  him,  the  effect  was  incredibly  bizarre  : 
it  was  for  all  the  world  as  though  some  monster 
whose  face  was  hidden  from  me  was  crouching 
at  my  feet  offering  the  truncated  head  of 
Bellingham  for  my  acceptance.  The  red- 
knuckled  fingers  formed  a  fitting  cup  for  the 


THE     STREET    OF    THE    EYE      13 

grotesque  sacrifice.  I  put  the  horrible  fancy 
behind  me  and  sought  to  regain  a  human  view 
of  that  face.  Gaunt  and  pallid,  with  high 
cheekbones  and  burning  eyes,  it  was  a  battle- 
ground of  conflicting  passions.  But  the  natures 
and  names  of  the  passions  I  could  only  surmise. 
An  ascetic  and  a  voluptuary,  perhaps,  had 
fought  in  Bellingham,  and  his  face  was  the 
neutral  ground  that  their  warfare  had  violated 
and  laid  waste.  The  merest  conjecture,  this, 
and  it  remained  so,  until  it  was  proved  to  be 
false. 

'  It  doesn't  bear  thinking  of,'  remarked 
Hayter,  '  so  it's  best  to  avoid  the  thought. 
The  animals  are  better  off  than  we,  by  a  long 
chalk.' 

'  There's  religion,'  said  the  flaxen-haired 
Fabian  tentatively. 

'  Soothing  syrup,'  Hayter  murmured. 
4  Religion  doesn't  face  death  :  it  only  pretends 
it  isn't  there.  Gateway  to  the  larger  life,  and 
all  that  cant.'  Hayter  was  a  very  positive 
young  man  in  his  way. 

Mulroyd  tried  to  banter  us  back  into  a  more 
comfortable  humour.  '  Material  for  a  first- 
rate  shindy  there.  Now  then,  Saunders,  speak 
up  for  your  cloth,  my  boy  ! ' 

'  I  shall,  when  I've  got  it,'  said  I.  A 
theological  student  does  not  care  to  talk  shop 


14     THE    STREET    OF    THE    EYE 

in  mixed  company.     I  was  shy  of  posing  as  a 
preacher,  and  not  to  be  drawn. 
'  Well,  if  Saunders  won't,  I  will.' 
The  voice  was  harsh,  and  tense  with  emo- 
tion.    It  seemed  to  come  out  of  the  grave 
itself.     We  all   stared  at   Bellingham,  whom 
we  had  become  accustomed  to  regard  as  almost 
incapable  of  contributing  to  a  conversation. 
We  waited.     Hayter  even  forgot  that  work  of 
chromatic  art,  his  pipe. 

'  Death  waits  for  every  man,'  said  Belling- 
ham. '  At  any  moment  it  may  engulf  us.' 
The  triteness  of  the  sermon  was  redeemed  by 
the  personality  that  blazed  in  the  speaker. 
'  And  then  .  .  .'  His  voice  trailed  off  into 
silence. 

*  And    then  ? '     enquired   Hayter,    with    a 
politeness  that  I  fancied  covered  a  sneer. 

*  And  then,'  said  the  man  of  doom,   '  we 
shall  find  ourselves  in  the  terrible  presence  of 
God.' 

For  once  even  the  genial  Mulroyd  was  stung 
to  sarcasm.  '  I  must  say,  judging  from  your 
tone,  you  don't  seem  to  relish  the  prospect 
much.' 

'  Never  mind  what  I  relish,'  answered 
Bellingham  sternly.  '  In  that  hour  you  and 
I  will  be  judged.  We  shall  be  forced  to  look 
into  the  eye  that  at  this  moment,  and  always, 


THE    STREET    OF    THE    EYE      15 

is  looking  upon  us.'  There  was  an  uncom- 
fortable silence,  as  well  there  might  be.  We 
had  not  reckoned  upon  such  an  explosion  of 
evangelical  fervour,  and  it  embarrassed  us  as 
some  flagrant  breach  of  manners  would  have 
done.  Perhaps,  heaven  help  us,  we  regarded 
it  as  a  flagrant  breach  of  manners.  Bellingham 
was  committing  the  cardinal  sin  :  he  was 
taking  something  too  seriously. 

4  When  I  was  a  child,'  went  on  Bellingham, 
without  ruth, '  I  was  told  the  story  of  a  prisoner 
condemned  to  solitary  confinement.  To  this 
punishment  was  added  the  further  horror  of 
perpetual  watching.  A  small  hole  was  drilled 
in  the  cell-door  through  which  an  eye  never 
ceased  to  peer  at  the  prisoner.  That  was  an 
allegory,  and  I  have  never  forgotten  it.  Even 
now,  you  fellows,  we  are  being  watched.' 

Some  of  us,  I  swear,  looked  round  ner- 
vously, half  expecting  to  catch  sight  of  that 
vigilant  eye.  I,  for  my  part,  was  angry. 
'  That's  not  an  allegory,  Bellingham,'  I  said. 
'  It's  a  damned  travesty.  You  conceive  God 
to  be  a  kind  of  Peeping  Tom,  with  omnipotence 
added.  I  would  rather  be  an  atheist  than 
believe  that.' 

'  Perhaps  you  would  rather  be  an  atheist,' 
retorted  Bellingham.  '  Perhaps  I  would  rather 
be  an  atheist.  But  I  can't  be.  Nor  can 


16      THE    STREET    OF    THE    EYE 

you.  Did  any  of  you  notice  the  name  of 
the  street  ?  * 

'  Name  of  the  street  ?  '  echoed  some  one. 
'  What  street  ?  * 

'  This  street,'  said  Bellingham. 

*  We're  not  in  a  street.  We're  in  a  cafe,' 
said  Hayter  truculently.  '  At  least  I  thought 
so  a  moment  ago.  I  begin  to  fancy  we  must 
be  in  a  misjion-hall.' 

At  the  moment  no  one  could  remember 
having  noticed  the  name.  '  Well,  I  did  notice 
it,'  said  Bellingham.  *  It  is  the  Street  of  the 
Eye.' 

Mulroyd  shrugged  his  shoulders,  a  gesture 
plainly  disdainful  of  this  touch  of  melodrama. 

'Well,'  said  I,  'what  of  it?'  For  the 
fellow's  morbidity  had  spoiled  my  temper. 
I  expected  a  night  of  bad  dreams. 

'  The  Street  of  the  Eye,'  repeated  Belling- 
ham. '  We're  all  in  that  street  ;  every  man 
born  is  in  that  street.  And  we  shall  never 
get  out  of  it.' 

I  believe  some  of  us  half-suspected  that  the 
wine  had  gone  to  his  head,  though  how  such 
stuff  could  make  any  man  tipsy  was  beyond 
understanding.  He  continued  to  irradiate 
gloom  upon  us  from  under  his  shaggy  brows. 
Mulroyd,  to  create  a  diversion,  held  out  his 
hands  to  Madeleine  in  mock  appeal. 


THE    STREET    OF    THE   EYE        17 

'  Du  vin,  mademoiselle  !  Nous  sommes 
bien  chagrines.' 

The  girl's  eyes  brightened  again.  At  the 
merest  hint  of  a  renewal  of  gaiety  she  rose, 
radiantly,  as  if  from  the  dead. 

'  Let's  have  some  champagne,'  Mulroyd 
suggested,  '  to  take  the  taste  of  death  out  of 
our  mouths.' 

'  Carpe  diem,'  murmured  Hayter.  '  Trite. 
But  the  first  and  last  word  of  wisdom.' 

'  You  can't  escape  that  way,'  remarked 
Bellingham,  sourly  insistent. 

But  we  could  stand  no  more  of  Bellingham 
just  then.  Flinging  courtesy  to  the  winds  we 
laughed  and  sang  and  shouted  him  down. 
'  Death  be  damned  !  '  cried  Mulroyd,  as  we 
clinked  glasses.  Never  was  a  ;oast  drunk 
with  more  fervour. 


You'll  be  surprised  when  I  say  that  after 
this  incident  I  got  to  know  Bellingham  better 
and  to  like  him  more.  Strange  as  it  may 
seem,  he  was  not  entirely  without  humour  ; 
and  I  fancied  that  he  was  the  least  bit  ashamed 
of  his  outburst.  The  next  day  he  went  about 
like  a  dog  in  disgrace,  feeling  perhaps  that 
every  one  disliked  him.  Back  he  went  into 

S.B.  c 


i8      THE    STREET    OF    THE    EYE 

that  shell  of  silence  from  which  he  had  only 
once,  and  with  such  dramatic  effect,  emerged. 
He  would  never,  I  know,  have  gone  back  on 
the  substance  of  his  discourse  ;  but,  as  he 
admitted  to  me  afterwards,  he  very  quickly 
began  to  doubt  the  wisdom  of  his  method. 
Fellow-undergraduates  were  not  to  be  fright- 
ened into  conversion  by  the  kind  of  revivalist 
rant  he  had  treated  us  to.  He  began  to  feel 
woefully  out  of  place  in  our  company.  Mul- 
royd,  good  fellow  though  he  was,  could  not 
bring  himself  to  make  any  warm  overtures  to 
one  whom  he  now  regarded  as  a  religious 
maniac  ;  on  the  surface  he  was  breezy  and 
friendly  enough,  but  in  his  heart  he  knew  that 
Bellingham  must  be  reckoned  among  his 
failures,  one  who  had  failed  to  justify  his  ardent 
faith  in  the  latent  social  value  of  every  man. 
The  others  ignored  him,  though  not  pointedly, 
much  as  they  had  always  done.  My  own  atti- 
tude was  different.  I  have,  as  you  know,  an 
insatiable  curiosity  about  human  nature — 
especially  freaks  of  human  nature,  I'm  afraid 
— and  Bellingham  had  piqued  that  curiosity. 
I  had  repudiated  his  particular  version  of  God 
as  being  nothing  but  an  almighty  Peeping 
Tom,  and  yet  a  weakness  for  peeping  is  my  own 
besetting  sin.  All  my  life  I  have  been  a  kind 
of  amateur  detective  of  the  human  soul.  More- 


THE     STREET    OF    THE    EYE      19 

over — though  I  don't  stress  this — I  had  more 
than  a  sneaking  sympathy  for  the  man.  After 
all  we  had  something  in  common,  something 
that  none  of  the  others  of  our  party  shared 
with  us.  We  were  both  hoping  to  be  ordained. 
In  spite  of  myself  I  had  to  admire  the  colossal 
courage  of  his  intervention  in  that  argument, 
even  while  I  disparaged  its  tone.  In  fine, 
for  this  reason  and  for  that,  I  made  rather 
a  point  of  cultivating  Bellingham's  acquain- 
tance from  that  day  forth.  And  I  had  my 
reward.  I  really  believe  that  to  me  he  revealed 
a  more  human  side  of  himself  than  anybody 
else  ever  caught  sight  of.  Next  term,  back 
at  college,  he  made  a  habit  of  strolling  into 
my  rooms  at  five  minutes  to  ten,  and  very 
often  we  talked  till  the  early  hours  of  the 
morning  about  this  and  that.  Sometimes  he 
became  reminiscent  about  his  childhood.  His 
earliest  memories  were  of  a  grey  suburban 
villa,  with  a  black  square  patch  in  front  and  a 
black  oblong  patch  behind,  both  called  gardens. 
The  square  one  was  marked  off  from  the 
road  by  hideous  iron  railings  and  an  iron  gate. 
Bellingham  assured  me  that  the  pattern  of  those 
railings  was  branded  on  his  retina  ;  and  in  an 
unwonted  lapse  from  literalism  he  declared 
that  it  was  a  pattern  designed  in  hell  and 
executed  in  Bedlam.  '  Wherever  I  see  it,'  he 


20     THE     STREET    OF     THE    EYE 

said  passionately,  under  the  influence  of  noth- 
ing more  potent  than  black  coffee,  '  wherever 
I  see  it — and  it  is  all  over  south-east  London — 
I  recognize  the  mark  of  the  beast,  the  signature 
of  an  incorrigible  stupidity.  The  very  smell 
of  those  railings  is  noisome.'  He  was  like 
that  :  ever  ready  to  see  material  things  as 
symbols  of  the  unseen,  and  very  prone — like 
many  religionists — to  confuse  the  symbol  with 
the  thing  symbolized.  In  the  sheer  exuberance 
of  his  passion,  whether  of  joy  or  disgust,  he 
would  make  some  wild  exaggerated  statement 
that  no  one  was  expected  to  take  literally  ;  and 
the  next  moment  he  himself  would  be  taking 
it  literally.  If,  for  example,  I  had  suggested 
to  him  that  to  talk  of  the  smell  of  railings  was  a 
trifle  fanciful,  he  would  have  been  genuinely 
astonished.  Whenever  he  loved  or  hated, 
rationality  went  to  the  winds.  And  he  seems 
to  have  hated  the  home  of  his  childhood  pretty 
completely.  The  back  garden,  where  he 
spent  a  good  deal  of  his  time,  figured  in  his  talk 
as  if  it  were  a  plague  spot,  an  evil  blot  upon 
the  earth.  If  one  is  to  believe  his  tale,  this 
garden  was  always,  in  season  and  out,  full  of 
wet  flapping  underclothes  hanging  on  a  line. 
They  used  to  lie  in  wait  for  him,  he  said,  and 
smack  him  in  the  face  :  it  was  like  being 
embraced  by  a  slimy  fish.  He  was  glad,  how- 


THE    STREET    OF    THE    EYE      21 

ever,  of  the  clothes-line  posts  ;  he  used  to 
climb  them  and  swing  from  the  cross-bars,  and 
once  or  twice  he  pulled  one  of  these  posts  out 
of  its  wooden  socket  in  the  ground  and  stared 
down  at  the  minute  wriggling  monsters  that 
scuttled  about  in  that  little  twilit  world. 
Another  thing  that  gave  him  pleasure  was  the 
sight  of  a  neighbouring  church,  aspiring  towards 
the  sky,  the  throne  of  God.  These  memories 
may  well  have  derived  much  of  their  colour 
from  imagination,  for  both  his  parents  died 
before  he  was  ten,  and  he  then  left  the  suburban 
villa  to  become  the  ward  of  his  uncle  Joseph. 
Joseph  Bellingham  appears  to  have  been 
conspicuously  unfitted  for  the  delicate  task  of 
bringing  up  a  sensitive,  solitary,  and  already 
morbid  child,  although  not  a  word  against  him 
would  his  nephew  have  admitted.  Justly  or 
unjustly  I  was  disposed  to  believe  that  this 
Uncle  Joseph  had  completed  the  dark  work 
begun  in  Bellingham  by  his  childish  solitude 
and  loveless  home.  For  his  parents,  I  should 
have  told  you,  were  lifeless,  disillusioned  people. 
I  suspect  they  had  never  been  happy  or 
passionate  lovers,  and  that  they  regarded  their 
son's  birth  as  one  more  penalty  rather  than  as 
the  desired  fruit  of  their  marriage.  In  some 
preposterous  way  (naturally  Bellingham  was 
reticent  here)  the  man  had  sacrificed  himself 


22      THE    STREET    OF    THE    EYE 

in  marrying  his  wife — some  fetish  of  '  honour  ' 
perhaps — and  of  course  he  spent  the  rest  of 
his  life  hating  her  for  it.  This  may  or  may  not 
account  for  the  fact  that  when  I  first  got  to 
know  Bellingham  he  seemed  extraordinarily 
insensitive,  for  a  man  of  his  temperament,  to 
beauty.  Not  totally  deficient — because  even 
his  hatred  of  a  certain  kind  of  iron  railings 
implies  some  standard,  however  subconscious 
— but  what  sense  of  beauty  he  possessed  had 
never  been  wakened  :  it  manifested  itself  only 
in  a  series  of  dislikes.  He  had  quite  a  devilish 
flair  for  seeing  the  most  repulsive  aspect  of 
things.  This  was  all  in  tune  with  his  miserable 
theology.  To  the  spiritual  loveliness  that 
radiates  from  the  central  figure  of  the  New 
Testament — to  that  beacon  he  was  as  blind 
as  he  was  deaf  to  the  many  golden  promises  of 
the  religion  of  Christ.  I  do  not  mean  that  he 
swerved  by  a  hair's  breadth  from  orthodoxy  ; 
I  mean  that  there  was  some  subtle  twist  in  his 
temperament  that  made  him  accept  '  the  love 
of  God  '  as  a  euphemism  and  '  the  wrath  of 
God  '  as  a  terrible  reality.  He  thought  more 
about  hell  than  about  heaven,  because  he  had 
only  seen  beauty  whereas  he  had  felt  ugliness. 
The  one  was  an  intellectual  apprehension  : 
the  other  was  a  perpetual  experience.  It  was 
evident  to  me,  from  what  he  did  not  say,  that 


THE     STREET    OF    THE    EYE      23 

he  had  never  known  love,  and  I  wondered 
what  was  in  store  for  him. 

But  though  with  me  he  became  more  and 
more  unreserved,  from  all  other  fellows  of  his 
class  and  education  he  drew  farther  away. 
There  was  a  spiritual  uncouthness  in  him  which 
prevented  his  taking  kindly  to  the  harmless 
social  artificialities  of  academic  life.  As  I  told 
him — and  he  admitted  it  good-humouredly — 
he  would  have  been  more  at  home  as  chief 
medicine-man  to  a  tribe  of  barbarians.  In 
some  remote  and  savage  bush  his  niche  awaited 
him.  Even  the  traditions  of  politeness  he 
grew  to  despise.  I  shocked  him  by  admitting 
that  I  myself  had  more  than  once  got  out  of 
accepting  an  invitation  to  breakfast  or  to  coffee 
by  feigning  to  be  engaged  elsewhere.  Belling- 
ham  would  have  said  bluntly,  '  No,  thanks,* 
and  have  left  it  at  that.  Courageous,  no  doubt, 
but  it  did  not  make  for  easy  social  relations. 
He  became  more  and  more  dissatisfied,  too, 
with  the  mild  fashionable  Anglicanism  of  our 
dean.  Of  his  own  religion  sensationalism  was 
the  life-breath  ;  and  the  worship  of  good  form, 
the  religion  of  all  undergraduates,  was  in  his 
eyes  the  most  dangerous  idolatry.  No  one  was 
surprised  when,  having  taken  his  degree  with 
the  rest  of  us,  he  abruptly  left  the  University. 
Instead  of  being  ordained  he  became  just  what 


24     THE    STREET    OF    THE    EYE 

I  had  chaffingly  suggested,  a  medicine-man 
to  a  tribe  of  barbarians.  To  be  more  exact, 
he  set  up  as  a  lay-missioner  near  the  Euston 
Road.  He  had  a  meagre  but  sufficient  private 
income  which  permitted  him  to  go  his  own 
solitary  gait.  And  there  he  busied  himself 
wrestling  with  the  Devil  for  the  souls  of  all 
the  miscellaneous  street-scum  he  could  lay 
hands  on.  God  forgive  me  if  I  have  ever  in 
my  heart  derided  Bellingham  !  He  had  the 
heroism  as  well  as  the  mania  of  a  one-idea'd 
man.  I  find  it  hard  to  suppose  that  his  con- 
verts were  any  the  happier  for  having  been 
injected  with  his  particular  virus  of  fear  ;  but, 
as  Bellingham  would  say,  where  happiness  can- 
not be  reconciled  to  salvation  happiness  must 
go.  Go  it  did,  I  have  no  doubt.  Fear  of  the 
policeman  was  displaced  by  a  scarcely  less 
ignoble  fear  of  God,  conceived  to  be  another 
policeman  on  a  much  larger  scale.  If  I  speak 
bitterly,  it  is  not  in  spite  of  my  religion  but 
because  of  it.  Before  I  have  finished  the  story 
you  will  understand  that  I  have  cause  for 
bitterness. 

We  exchanged  a  few  letters,  he  and  I  ;  but 
it  was  not  until  eighteen  months  later  that,  at 
his  own  invitation,  I  went  to  see  him.  '  Saun- 
ders,  I  need  your  help,'  he  said  in  his  letter, 
and  added  something  about  my  being  his  only 


THE    STREET    OF    THE     EYE      25 

real  friend  and  so  on.  He  had  dismal  little 
lodgings  in  a  dismal  little  side-street  the  name 
of  which  I  have  forgotten.  Bellingham  him- 
self opened  the  door  to  me.  I  had  told  him 
when  to  expect  me  and  he  must  have  been 
waiting  at  the  window.  He  greeted  me  in  a 
shamefaced  eager  fashion  that  touched  my 
heart.  I  was  astonished  at  the  change  in  him  : 
the  more  astonished  because  it  was  at  once 
subtle  and  impossible  to  miss.  There  was  a 
gentleness  in  his  eyes  that  I  had  never  seen 
there  before.  He  was  more  human.  He  led 
me  to  his  own  rooms — they  were  at  the  top  of  a 
four-storied  house,  and  looked  out  on  a  prospect 
of  smoking  chimneys — and  forced  me  into  the 
only  comfortable  chair  he  possessed. 

I  began  smoking,  but  he  denied  himself 
that  nerve-soothing  indulgence.  His  eyes, 
alight  with  an  unwonted  shyness  that  was  only 
half  shame,  avoided  meeting  mine.  We  fenced 
for  a  while,  talking  over  our  Jesus  days  ;  and 
all  the  while  my  mind,  involuntarily,  was  seek- 
ing a  name  for  something  in  that  room  that 
I  had  not  expected  to  find.  Presently  Belling- 
ham rose  from  his  chair.  It  was  an  abrupt 
and  surprising  movement.  '  Like  to  see  the 
rest  of  my  quarters  ? '  he  said,  in  a  tone  desper- 
ately casual.  I  followed  him  into  the  next 
room,  and  there,  in  one  glance,  the  mystery 


26      THE    STREET    OF    THE    EYE 

was  made  clear.  The  bedroom  was  the  answer 
to  the  problem  of  the  sitting-room.  What  I 
had  detected  while  we  sat  talking  was  domes- 
ticity, a  subtle  but  decided  fragrance  of  home  : 
a  certain  precision  in  the  arrangement  of  books 
and  furniture.  In  the  bedroom,  with  its  two 
spotlessly  white-sheeted  beds  and  its  vase  of 
flowers  standing  in  the  centre  of  a  miniature 
dressing-table,  the  same  story  was  told  more 
eloquently  ;  there  was,  accentuated,  aggressive, 
the  same  neatness  and  daintiness  of  effect  which 
a  contented  woman  instinctively  imposes  on 
her  surroundings.  No  bachelor,  however 
fastidious,  could  have  achieved  it.  '  Quite  a 
jolly  little  place,'  I  remarked,  to  hide  my  own 
surprise  and  his  embarrassment.  '  Very,'  said 
Bellingham,  and  we  went  back  to  our  seats  by 
the  fire. 

Bellingham  tried  to  take  up  the  thread  of 
our  conversation  where  we  had  dropped  it  five 
minutes  before.  But  for  his  own  sake  I  cut 
off  that  line  of  retreat. 

*  Look  here,  my  dear  fellow  !  You  didn't 
ask  me  over  here  in  order  to  discuss  our 
esteemed  Dr.  Morgan.  Tell  me  all  about  it.' 

Bellingham  faced  me  squarely  at  last.  *  You 
mean  my  marriage  ?  '  I  nodded.  '  Well,  to 
start  with,  I'm  not  married.' 

I  think  he  expected  me  to  flinch  at  that  ; 


THE     STREET    OF     THE    EYE        27 

and  perhaps  my  failure  to  do  so  disconcerted 
as  well  as  encouraged  him.  I  said  nothing. 
I  felt  that  I  could  do  more  good  by  listening 
than  by  talking. 

'  She  has  been  in  these  rooms  for  two  months,' 
said  Bellingham.  '  And  what  you  saw  in  there 
— that  has  existed  for  ten  days,  just  ten  days.' 
I  divined  that  this  was  his  way  of  indicating 
to  me  the  duration  of  his  married  life.  '  You 
see  I  didn't  fall  at  once,  or  easily.  The  Devil 
is  always  insidious,  isn't  he  ?  Saunders,  that 
girl  is  a  magician.  Joan,  her  name  is.  She 
transformed  this  place.  It's  not  bad  now,  is 
it  ?  You  should  have  seen  it  before  she  came. 
And  me,  too — you  should  have  seen  me  before 
she  came.  It's  a  new  life  to  me.  I'm  trans- 
lated. And  yet  .  .  .' 

'  How  and  where  did  you  meet  her  ?  ' 

'  In  the  street,  at  the  beginning  of  November. 
Her  husband  kicked  her  out.  A  swine  he  is  ; 
thank  God  I've  never  set  eyes  on  him.  Told 
her  to  go  and  sell  herself,  and  come  back  with 
her  earnings.' 

There  was  a  pause.     '  And  she  ? '  I  asked. 

'  She  was  on  the  streets  for  five  days.  Yes, 
a  prostitute  for  five  days.'  I  saw  Bellingham's 
face  contract  with  pain,  and  I  knew  that  some- 
thing deeper  than  pity  had  been  stirred  in  him. 
And  so  the  recital  went  on.  Bit  by  bit  I  got 


28      THE    STREET    OF    THE     EYE 

his  story  and  pieced  it  together.  He  did  not 
spare  himself  ;  but  even  his  passion  for  repen- 
tance, his  ingrained  conviction  of  sin,  could 
not  persuade  me  that  he  had  been  guilty  of  a 
very  heinous  crime.  He  had  rescued  the  girl, 
at  first  in  sheer  compassion,  and  cherished  her 
as  he  would  have  cherished  any  other  fragment 
of  human  salvage.  And  her  presence,  her 
pathetic  prettiness  and  her  childish  need  of 
affection,  had  been  too  much  for  him.  In  a 
passion  of  gratitude,  I  surmise,  she  had  offered 
him,  with  a  full  heart,  what  she  had  so  reluc- 
tantly sold  to  casual  men  during  her  five  days 
purgatory.  The  appeal  to  his  manhood  was 
too  sudden,  too  overwhelming,  to  be  resisted. 
Beauty,  seen  for  the  first  time  in  dazzling  glory, 
had  invaded  his  heart  and  beaten  down  his 
defences.  For  the  first  time  in  my  experience 
of  him  there  was  inconsistency  in  Bellingham. 
He  spoke,  one  minute,  of  his  *  fall,'  like  any  sour 
moralist  ;  and  in  his  very  next  sentence  he 
would  become  almost  lyrical  about  this  '  new 
life,'  this  shattering  apocalypse  of  beauty.  It 
was  as  if  the  man  had  been  cloven  in  twain 
and  spoke  with  two  voices.  And  that,  I  believe, 
is  the  real  key  to  the  baffling  terror  that  was 
to  follow. 

Later  in  the  afternoon,  in  time  to  prepare 
tea  for  us,  came  Joan  herself,  a  big-eyed  child 


THE     STREET    OF    THE    EYE      29 

in  her  early  'twenties,  with  very  fair  hair,  like  a 
little  lost  angel  with  a  Cockney  accent.  The 
sudden  fear  that  leaped  into  her  eyes  as  she 
timidly  greeted  me  would  have  stabbed  any 
man's  heart.  She  was  absurdly  fragile,  and 
I  saw  at  once  that  those  five  evil  days  had 
been  no  more  than  a  gruesome  physical  accident 
which  had  left  her  courage  shaken  but  her 
innocence  unimpaired.  She  guessed,  no  doubt, 
that  we  had  been  discussing  her  ;  and  both 
Bellingham  and  I  felt  caddish,  I  dare  say,  when 
we  remembered  having  done  so.  But  I  suc- 
ceeded in  winning  her  confidence  by  displaying 
a  keen  interest  in  her  market-basket,  which  she 
carried  on  her  arm,  and  in  a  very  few  moments 
she  became  garrulous  about  her  shopping 
experiences,  displaying  a  pretty  pride  in  her 
purchases.  They  included,  I  remember,  three 
dried  herrings  and  a  pound  of  pig's-fry.  The 
herrings  we  had  for  our  tea,  and  I  have  never 
enjoyed  a  meal  more. 

In  the  evening,  during  a  long  walk  through 
mean  streets,  Bellingham  came  to  the  point. 
He  had  said,  you  will  remember,  that  he  needed 
my  help.  What  he  wanted  was  no  less  than 
that  I  should  play  the  part  of  conscience  to 
him.  I  was  to  be  instated,  apparently,  as  his 
spiritual .  pastor.  For  the  sake  of  that  poor 
child  happily  darning  his  socks  at  home,  I 


30      THE    STREET    OF    THE    EYE 

could  not  refuse  the  embarrassing  honour 
thrust  upon  me.  And  when  I  learned  that 
repentance  was  actually  beginning  to  gain  the 
upper  hand  of  him  I  was  glad  indeed  to  exert  any 
influence  I  possessed  on  the  side  of  humanity. 
He  had  had  a  vile  dream,  he  told  me,  and  it 
was  evident  that  he  regarded  it  as  a  warning 
sent  by  that  vigilant  deity  of  his.  In  the 
dream  his  landlady,  who  believed  him  to  be  a 
legally  married  man,  came  and  smiled  at  him 
over  the  bedrail,  and  wagged  her  head  till  it 
detached  itself  from  the  body  and  multiplied. 
The  air  was  full  of  these  grinning  heads,  poised 
like  dragon-flies,  all  their  evil  eyes  on  Belling- 
ham.  Terror,  he  told  me,  took  concrete  form 
inside  his  own  head  :  he  could  hear  it  simmer- 
ing, sizzling,  gurgling,  boiling,  splitting  ;  it 
drove  him  out  of  bed,  away  from  Joan,  and 
across  the  arid  plains  of  hell  under  a  sky 
monotonously  grey  except  where  the  sun,  a 
bloody  red,  like  a  huge  socket  from  which  the 
eye  had  been  torn,  stared  sightlessly  at  him. 
Even  as  he  gazed  at  it  it  filled  and  became 
menacing  with  the  eye  of  God. 

'  It  was  a  vision  of  hell,'  Bellingham  said, 
wiping  the  moisture  from  his  brow.  '  And 
the  eye  of  God  was  even  there.  O  Lord, 
how  can  I  escape  from  Thy  presence  !  ' 

It  did  not  seem  to  me  a  moment  propitious 


THE    STREET    OF    THE    EYE      31 

for  argument,  so  I  held  my  peace.  He  talked 
on  about  his  doubts  and  his  difficulties,  his  sin 
and  his  repentance  ;  and  at  last  I  gathered 
that  I  was  being  invited  to  tell  him  whether 
he  should  stay  with  Joan  or  leave  her. 

c  Oh,  fling  her  into  the  streets,'  I  advised 
him,  with  furious  irony,  '  as  her  husband  did.' 

'  Yes,'  he  said,  mildly  enough.  '  You're 
right.  Against  all  my  religious  convictions  I 
feel  you  to  be  right.  I  have  made  her  my  wife, 
and  I  must  be  faithful  to  my  choice,  right  or 
wrong.' 

'  It's  as  plain  as  day,'  I  assured  him.  '  Love 
and  duty  are  pointing  in  the  same  direction 
for  once.  Why  should  you  doubt  it  ?  ' 

'  You  see,  Saunders,'  said  Bellingham,  with 
sudden  fire,  '  it's  all  or  nothing.  She  must 
remain  my  wife,  or  we  must  separate.  There's 
no  third  way.  I  can't  spend  the  rest  of  my 
life  in  the  waters  of  Tantalus.  I'm  only  a 
man,  God  help  me  !  ' 

For  a  while  we  left  it  at  that. 

3 

Saunders  has  an  exasperating  habit  of  stop- 
ping in  the  middle  of  a  story,  and  behaving 
as  though  it  were  finished.  He  did  this  now. 
I  reminded  him  that  I  was  still  listening.  .  .  . 
No,  I  haven't  done  yet,  he  admitted.  I  thought 


32      THE    STREET    OF    THE    EYE 

that  was  the  end,  but  it  was  only  the  beginning 
of  poor  Bellingham's  troubles.  You  must 
imagine  me  now  as  popping  in  and  out  of  his 
home  pretty  often.  Those  two  remote  rooms, 
like  a  fantastic  nest  built  among  London 
chimney-pots,  attracted  me  by  the  romance 
they  symbolized,  by  their  air  of  being  an  idyllic 
peasant  cottage,  exquisitely  clean,  stuck  away 
in  the  heart  of  the  metropolis.  Bellingham 
sent  another  urgent  summons  to  me.  It  was 
the  first  of  a  series  of  alarms.  The  haunting 
began.  The  dreams  that,  every  few  nights, 
made  Bellingham's  sleep  a  thing  of  terror  began 
now  to  invade  his  waking  life.  The  Watching 
Eye  was  upon  him,  the  eye  of  God,  ne  declared 
it  to  be,  trying  to  subdue  him  to  submission. 
He  heard  a  voice  that  said  to  him,  *  Put  the 
woman  from  you.'  In  short,  he  exhibited  all 
the  signs  of  incipient  madness.  At  the  time 
I  thought  it  was  indeed  madness  which  threat- 
ened him.  With  one  of  his  frantic  telegrams 
in  my  hand — '  I  have  seen  God  '  or  '  He  is 
come  again  in  judgment ' — what  else  could  I 
think  ?  Yet  I  still  believed  that  together  he 
and  I,  with  the  courageous  co-operation  of  Joan 
herself,  might  fend  off  the  danger.  She,  poor 
girl,  was  tearful  but  invincibly  staunch.  She 
would  have  sacrificed  herself  utterly  for  him, 
whom  she  loved  with  an  unshakable  devotion  ; 


THE     STREET    OF    THE    EYE      33 

but  I  persuaded  her  that  her  going  away,  as 
she  suggested,  would  not  ease  the  situation. 
You  will  think  me  fanciful,  no  doubt,  but 
sometimes  I  felt  that  Bellingham  was  fighting 
for  his  soul  against  some  usurping  demon,  and 
that  anything — death  or  damnation — was  better 
than  base  surrender.  And  Bellingham,  though 
he  took  a  very  different  view  of  the  nature  of 
the  contest,  came  to  agree  with  my  conclusion. 
He  rejected  my  proposition  but  embraced  the 
corollary.  He  conceived  himself  fighting 
against  impossible  odds,  with  no  less  than  God, 
the  Might  and  Majesty  of  the  universe,  as  his 
implacable  antagonist.  '  I  tell  you,  Saunders,' 
he  said  to  me,  '  I  saw  Him  plainly.  He  stood 
over  there  by  my  desk.  He  has  incarnated 
Himself  once  more  in  order  to  crush  my  revolt.' 
I  passed  over  the  almost  maniacal  egoism  of 
the  conception,  and  asked  for  a  description  of 
the  Divine  Visitor.  '  His  body  was  all  in 
strong  shadow,'  Bellingham  answered,  shud-. 
dering  at  the  recollection.  *  Only  His  terrible 
eyes  were  visible,  and  His  accusing  finger  that 
pointed  at  me.' 

I  had  respected  Bellingham  ever  since  I  had 
come  to  know  him  ;  and  now,  if  I  respected 
his  intelligence  less,  I  felt  something  more  than 
admiration  for  the  indomitable  spirit  of  the 
man.  His  unshaken  belief  that  he  was  defying 

S.B.  D 


34     THE    STREET    OF    THE    EYE 

his  Creator  made  fidelity  to  Joan  a  piece  of 
titanic  courage.  Beset  by  horrors  unspeak- 
able, conscious  that  the  citadel  of  his  very  reason 
was  being  stormed,  he  yet  held  doggedly  to 
his  determination.  Doggedly  at  first,  and 
afterwards  with  a  sublime  pride  that  I  could 
not  witness  without  an  answering  pride,  a 
flaming  exultation  in  the  splendour  of  the 
human  soul.  Maniac  or  not,  he  extorted  wil- 
ling homage  from  me.  You  may  say  what 
you  like  about  hallucination  and  the  rest  of 
it,  but  I  tell  you  that  to  me,  an  eye-witness,  the 
battle  was  lifted  into  the  realm  of  cosmic 
drama  where  everything  takes  on  a  significance 
past  mortal  understanding  but  not  past  mortal 
apprehension.  I  thought  of  Job  ;  I  thought 
of  Prometheus  ;  and  I  thought  of  Bellingham 
as  no  mean  third,  championing  life  against 
death,  championing  youth,  beauty,  and  all  frail 
humanity,  against  the  cruel  bogey  of  the  mind 
that  menaced  them.  It  goes  without  saying 
that  his  terrors  derived  all  their  power  from 
his  belief  in  their  reality.  He  was  blind  to  the 
plain  facts  of  real  religion,  deaf  to  my  rationaliz- 
ing explanations  of  the  horror  that  haunted 
him,  obstinate  in  his  conviction  that  God,  and 
none  other,  was  the  author  and  agent  of  his 
persecution.  Equally  convinced  was  he  that 
he  had  but  to  cast  Joan  out  and  he  would  save 


THE    STREET    OF    THE     EYE      35 

his  soul  alive.  Every  week  saw  a  change  in 
his  physical  condition.  That  brief  period  of 
his  second  blooming,  fostered  by  the  sweet 
presence  and  the  maternal  care  of  Joan,  seemed 
over  for  ever  ;  it  was  as  if  the  seven  years  of 
spiritual  famine  were  now  to  follow.  He  grew 
more  gaunt,  more  haggard  ;  vitality  shrunk 
into  him  like  a  pent  prisoner  and  peered  out 
through  those  fiery  orbs,  his  eyes,  as  through 
the  mean  windows  of  a  condemned  cell.  He 
was  locked  fast  in  an  impregnable  isolation, 
from  which  no  one  could  rescue  him,  it  seemed, 
certainly  not  I,  either  by  force  or  guile.  He 
distrusted  his  food  ;  he  distrusted  the  men 
and  women  who  passed  him  in  the  street. 
There  were  only  two  human  souls  he  did  not 
distrust  :  Joan  herself  was  one,  and  I,  by  the 
mercy  of  heaven,  was  the  other.  He  began  to 
see  a  vast  and  sinister  significance  in  all  sorts 
of  trivial  events,  all  sorts  of  minor  disasters 
that  did  not  in  the  least  concern  any  one  of  us, 
seeing  in  them  the  beginning  of  a  cosmic 
disintegration  that  should  engulf  him  in  per- 
dition. He  was  afraid  yet  defiant  of  these 
fatalities.  He  was  both  egomaniacal  and  illo- 
gical in  his  conviction  that  God,  his  implac- 
able adversary,  would  behave  like  the  veriest 
villain  of  melodrama  rather  than  let  him  escape  : 
tear  the  universe  to  tatters  in  order  to  compass 


36     THE    STREET    OF    THE    EYE 

the  death  or  the  dishonour  of  this  one  rebellious 
spirit,  like  a  man  who  should  pull  his  own 
house  about  his  ears  in  the  pursuit  of  a  solitary 
rat.  I  myself  began  to  scan  the  papers  anxiously 
for  wars  and  rumours  of  wars.  Different  as 
were  our  intellectual  convictions,  there  was  the 
stark  comradeship  between  us  of  those  who 
face  death  together.  He  watched  for  signs  of 
God  ;  Joan  and  I,  with  equal  vigilance,  watched 
him.  And  the  stronger  grew  my  affection  for 
Bellingham,  the  shakier  my  own  nerves  became. 
Finally,  with  a  kind  of  exultation,  I  threw  up 
all  my  work — I  was  a  curate  at  the  time — and 
flung  myself  body  and  soul  into  this  holy  war. 
I  found  lodgings  near  Bellingham's,  and  visited 
him  every  day  without  fail.  I  felt  that  this 
fretting,  this  piling  of  horror  upon  horror, 
could  not  go  on  much  longer.  Sooner  or  later 
there  would  be  a  crisis  ;  the  increasing  tension 
would  snap.  Mingled  with  my  fear  for  Bel- 
lingham's sanity  was  a  fear  for  the  safety  of 
Joan,  caged  up  with  a  maniac.  For  a  week 
or  more  we  worried  and  waited. 

4 

The  end  came  with  a  sudden  and  sickening 
rush.  And  yet  it  was  an  end  worth  waiting 
and  working  for.  In  the  street  just  outside  his 
home,  Bellingham  was  knocked  down  by  a 


THE    STREET    OF    THE    EYE      37 

passing  cab.  Joan  saw  the  accident  from  the 
window.  By  the  sheerest  chance  he  escaped  with 
nothing  worse  than  bruises  and  flesh  wounds, 
but  his  excitement  and  terror  reached  their 
climax  as  he  was  helped  back,  limp  and  bleed- 
ing, to  his  rooms.  The  policeman,  with  a 
kindly  word,  handed  him  over  to  Joan's  care. 
She  was  all  for  summoning  a  doctor,  but  Bel- 
lingham  would  not  hear  of  it.  White-faced, 
hiding  his  rising  tumult  behind  a  mask  of  steely 
calm,  he  told  her  curtly  to  fetch  me.  She 
obeyed,  poor  child,  in  terror  of  her  life  and  his 
own.  I  was  with  them  ten  minutes  later. 

'  Saunders,'  he  greeted  me,  without  preamble. 
'  God  has  flung  down  His  last  challenge/ 

'  You  mean  this  accident  !  '  said  I,  scoffing 
gently.  ^ 

'  Accident  1  '  retorted  Bellingham.  '  Do 
you,  a  priest  of  God,  talk  to  me  of  accident  ! 
Not  a  sparrow  falls  without  God.  No,  it  was 
no  accident.  It  was  the  last  warning.  I  feel 
in  my  bones  that  this  is  the  end.  At  any 
moment  now  He  will  strike,  and  I  shall  burn 
in  hell  for  ever  more,  where  their  worm  dieth 
not  and  the  fire  is  not  quenched.'  He  had 
the  true  missioner's  flow  of  quotations,  mostly 
misapplied  ;  but  I  knew  better  than  to  cross 
him  then.  Something  of  his  own  passion 
infected  me. 


38      THE     STREET    OF    THE    EYE 

We  were  standing  in  the  bedroom,  where 
he  was  at  last  submitting,  with  the  most 
complete  indifference,  to  the  medical  minis- 
trations of  Joan.  '  Let's  go  into  the  other 
room,'  I  suggested,  '  and  discuss  this  quietly 
and  in  comfort.'  I  led  the  way,  and  they 
followed.  The  living-room,  as  I  fancy  they 
called  it,  was  more  cheerful  by  a  long  way. 
There  was  a  fire  in  the  grate,  and  a  lamp  like 
a  great  harvest  moon  glowed  yellow  on  the 
table. 

'  Listen  to  me,  Saunders,'  cried  Bellingham, 
refusing  to  sit  down.  '  You  are  my  best 
friend,  my  only  friend  ;  and  Joan  is  my  wife, 
the  finest  wife  that  any  man  had.  The  All- 
Seeing  Eye  is  watching  me  now,  as  always  ; 
that  street-accident,  as  you  call  it,  was  the 
plain  speech  of  God  telling  me  to  desert  this 
woman.  I'm  a  doomed  man,  Saunders,  and  I 
can  speak  my  mind  now.  I  believe  in  God  as 
firmly  as  ever  I  believed  in  Him,  but  I  have 
learned  something.  He  is  not  worth  serving. 
I  tell  you,  Saunders,  that  the  God  we  have 
both  worshipped  is  as  evil  as  He  is  powerful. 
Almighty  Evil  sits  upon  the  throne  of  the 
universe,  and  I  will  curse  Him  and  die.'  Poor 
fellow,  he  could  not  believe  me  when  I  told 
him  that  it  was  the  God  in  himself  that  was 
speaking  those  wild  words,  the  God  in  himself 


THE     STREET    OF    THE     EYE      39 

that  was  fighting  a  heroic  battle  against  the 
demon  of  fear  that  Joan  by  her  woman's 
tenderness  had  cast  out. 

There  came,  suddenly,  a  crash  of  something 
falling  in  one  of  the  lower  rooms  of  the  house. 
It  jarred  our  tense  nerves  horribly.  And 
then,  for  the  last  time,  the  terror  came  to 
Bellingham,  as  if  in  answer  to  his  taunt.  He 
alone  saw  it,  and  you  will  quickly  interpose 
that  it  was  his  mind  alone  that  created  it.  And 
in  a  sense  I  believe  you  are  right,  but  you'll  find 
it  hard  before  I  finish  to  maintain  that  the 
apparition  was  a  purely  subjective  thing.  Can 
an  hallucination  cause  windows  to  rattle  and 
doors  to  move  ?  I  believe  for  my  part  that 
in  some  unfathomable  way  the  old  Bellingham, 
or  rather  the  riot  of  evil  fancies  about  God 
that  had  victimized  the  old  Bellingham,  had 
woven  for  itself  some  external  form.  Language 
is  crude  and  clumsy,  crushing  the  truth  at 
which  it  grasps  ;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  in 
some  sense — and  a  sense  not  too  metaphorical 
— the  man  was,  as  I  said  before,  cloven  in 
twain,  divided  against  himself.  But  your  face 
warns  me  that  I'm  boring  you. 

'  There  it  is,'  shouted  Bellingham,  pointing 
towards  a  corner  of  the  room.  Joan,  afraid 
of  her  lover,  rushed  to  me,  and  my  arms  closed 
round  her  instinctively.  We  stared  and  saw 


40     THE    STREET    OF     THE     EYE 

nothing.  '  The  same  evil  eyes,'  said  Belling- 
ham,  more  quietly,  *  the  same  accusing  finger.' 
And  then  began  an  uncanny  one-sided  colloquy. 
Bellingham  conversed  with  his  invisible  mentor. 
'  I  will  not  leave  her,  God,'  said  Bellingham. 
4  I  despise  your  dirty  counsels.  Kill  me,  damn 
me,  burn  me.  Send  me  to  hell,  where  I  may 
see  your  hateful  staring  face  no  more.' 

The  windows  began  unaccountably  to  rattle. 
Joan  clung  to  me,  sobbing,  on  the  verge  of 
hysteria.  Bellingham  strode  towards  the  table 
and  with  one  swift  gesture  put  out  the  light. 
*  I  am  not  afraid  of  your  darkness,'  he  flung 
out. 

For  a  moment,  silence;  and  a  darkness  made 
ghastly  by  bright  moonlight.  Then  the  win- 
dows rattled  again,  and  then,  quite  without 
warning,  Bellingham  collapsed  and  fell  against 
me.  My  body  had  broken  his  fall,  and  I  now 
released  Joan  in  order  to  turn  my  attention  to 
her  lover.  The  sight  of  him  prostrate  restored 
her  to  courage.  She  was  always  ready  when 
needed.  I  left  Bellingham  to  her  care  for  a 
moment  and  turned  again  to  that  haunted 
corner.  I  have  never  known  fear  such  as  I 
knew  at  that  moment,  and  yet  I  felt  infinitely 
braced  by  the  dramatic  significance  of  this 
conflict  with  an  unknown  terror.  It  was  as  if 
hell  had  invaded  earth,  and  that  God  had 


THE    STREET    OF    THE    EYE      41 

left  me  as  His  sole  witness.  At  such  crises  a 
man  with  religion  turns  to  it.  Your  old- 
fashioned  agnosticism  will  be  shocked  by  my 
method  of  exorcising  evil. 

1  In  the  Name  of  God  the  Father,  God  the 
Son,  and  God  the  Holy  Ghost,  I  charge  you  to 
leave  this  man  in  peace  !  '  I  made  the  sign  of 
the  cross. 

And  still  I  stared,  and  still  I  saw  nothing. 
Joan  was  busy  with  Bellingham,  who  was 
beginning  to  shew  signs  of  returning  conscious- 
ness. I  could  not  move  my  eyes  away  from 
the  corner  by  the  door.  And  while  I  stared, 
something  at  last  happened.  Thank  Heaven 
that  I  alone  saw  it  !  The  door  leading  to  the 
bedroom,  which  had  been  left  half-open,  began 
closing.  It  closed,  pulled  to  from  the  other 
side,  and  the  knob  moved  and  the  catch 
clicked,  as  though  released  from  the  hand  of 
the  Unseen.  I  ran  to  it,  opened  it,  and 
looked  out.  And  saw — nothing  at  all. 


SLEEPING     BEAUTY 


SLEEPING    BEAUTY 


HARRIET  leaned  across  the  scullery  sink, 
where  dirty  plates  were  soaking,  in 
order  to  get  a  better  view  of  the  moon.  Her 
sleeves  were  turned  up  to  the  elbow.  Her 
right  hand  grasped  a  ball  of  dishcloth  from 
which  slimy  water  oozed  between  her  red 
fingers  to  float,  in  black  spots,  upon  the  surface 
of  the  water.  Upon  that  water,  through  which 
projected  a  tureen,  like  the  bows  of  a  wrecked 
ship,  the  moonlight  fell.  The  three  and 
elevenpenny  alarum  clock  in  the  kitchen  began 
striking  nine. 

All  Harriet's  spiritual  crises  had  had  for 
their  mise-en-sc^ne  this  scullery,  or  so  it 
seemed  to  Harriet  herself.  Seven  years  earlier 
she  had  stood  where  she  was  now  standing  and 
had  wrestled  with  overmastering  fear,  to  the 
accompaniment  of  that  same  ticking  clock  and 
to  the  drip-drip  from  the  plate-rack  upon 
already  washed  spoons.  She  had  leaned  then 

45 


46  SLEEPING    BEAUTY 

across  the  sink,  as  she  was  leaning  now,  and 
stared  in  terror  at  an  unearthly  glow  in  the 
sky  that  could  scarcely  fail  to  mean  the  end 
of  the  world  and  the  coming  of  God  in  judg- 
ment. She  shuddered  to  picture  the  dead 
bodies,  putty-coloured,  rising  in  their  shrouds 
to  confront — with  her  and  Mamma  and  Alice 
and  Maud — an  implacable  Creator.  *  O  God, 
don't  come  yet  !  '  It  had  been  the  most 
spontaneous  of  all  her  prayers.  She  had  heard 
too  much  of  this  God  to  trust  herself  readily 
to  His  mercy  ;  and  she,  the  most  wicked  of 
girls,  had  little  enough  to  hope  from  mere 
justice.  She  had  too  often  deceived  her 
teacher  and  been  unsympathetic  with  her  poor 
mother  ;  and  far  too  often  had  she  resented 
having  to  drudge  in  the  house — sweep  and 
dust,  make  beds,  empty  slops,  and  wash  dirty 
dinner-things — while  still  at  school,  and  to  the 
neglect  of  her  home-lessons. 

Whether  in  answer  to  her  prayer,  or  from 
come  other  cause,  God  had  stayed  His  coming 
on  that  occasion,  and  to-night,  within  a  week 
of  her  twentieth  birthday,  she  was  thinking  of 
quite  other  things  :  not  of  God,  but  of  the 
moon.  There  was  something  placid  and 
sisterly  to-night  about  that  celestial  presence, 
and  Harriet  was  deliciously  aware  of  a  bond 
between  them.  '  Because  Geoff  likes  us  both/ 


SLEEPING    BEAUTY  47 

she  said  in  her  heart.  What  had  been  his 
phrase,  the  phrase  that  had  astonished  her 
first  to  gladness  ?  '  Gentle  as  moonlight,  soft 
and  gentle  as  moonlight.'  The  words  haunted 
her  memory  like  singing  birds.  Geoff's  liking 
was  in  itself  strange  enough  :  the  degree  of 
his  liking  was  scarcely  credible.  Why  had  he 
no  eyes  for  Alice,  the  acknowledged  beauty 
of  the  family  ? — or  for  Maud,  with  her  brains  ? 
'  Cinderella  and  the  Ugly  Sisters,'  Geoff  had 
said.  But  Cinderella  had  been  a  pretty  girl, 
and  she,  Harriet,  was  all  too  plain.  It  could 
only  have  been  kindness  or  perverse  obstinacy 
that  had  made  him  deny  that.  She  glanced 
into  the  tiny  mirror  that  hung  from  a  nail  on 
the  pink  distempered  wall,  and  examined  with 
some  distaste  the  oval  olive  face,  the  fair 
hair,  and  the  large  brown  eyes  that  looked 
out  at  her.  Tears  began  to  form  in  those  eyes. 
'  Now  don't  start  that  silliness  !  '  she  admon- 
ished herself.  And  she  returned  to  the 
practical  world  and  to  the  washing  of  the 
things  dirtied  at  supper.  '  I  do  wish  mamma 
wouldn't  leave  all  her  fat,'  she  thought,  as 
with  her  scullery  knife  she  sped  three  quivering 
fragments  into  the  waste-pail. 

There  remained  the  undeniable  fact  that 
Geoff  wanted  to  marry  her  :  that  is,  he  liked 
her  so  much  that  he  wished  her  to  share 


48  SLEEPING    BEAUTY 

his  home,  when  he  acquired  one,  and  wash  his 
dishes  instead  of  her  mother's.  She  could 
cook,  too  :  she  could  make  him  nice  things  ; 
and  she  would  indeed  have  cheerfully  slaved 
for  his  comfort  in  gratitude  for  that  pity 
which,  as  she  supposed,  had  made  his  glance 
linger  in  kindness  upon  her.  But  that  was 
not  to  be.  Even  in  that  wonderful  moment 
when  he  praised  her  gentleness  she  had 
realized  how  impossible  it  was  that  she  should 
leave  mamma  ;  and  her  sisters  had  been  not 
slow  to  emphasize  that  impossibility.  '  Boy 
and  girl  flirtation,'  said  Alice  with  genial 
contempt — unaccountably,  since  Geoff  was 
twenty-six  and  considered  to  be  rather  a  clever 
young  man.  He  was  a  poet — a  bank-clerk 
in  his  spare  time — and  his  knack  of  finding 
rhymes  should  alone  have  earned  him  some 
respect.  To  Geoff  himself  Alice  had  always 
been  conspicuously  friendly  ;  and  as  for  Maud 
— he  had  been  her  friend  in  the  first  place  (she 
had  met  him  in  the  city),  and  it  had  always 
been  assumed  that  it  was  Maud  whom  he  came 
to  see.  But  about  Geoff's  intentions  now 
there  could  be  no  doubt  at  all.  He  had  even 
wanted,  the  dear  silly,  to  help  Harriet  wash 
up,  but  she  had  not  dared  to  allow  that, 
and  he,  making  a  virtue  of  necessity,  was  at 
this  moment  closeted  with  the  family,  per- 


SLEEPING    BEAUTY  49 

haps  urging  once  more  his  extravagant  claim. 

The  last  dish  dried,  the  last  fork  placed  in 
its  proper  section  of  the  plate-basket,  she  re- 
turned, rather  shamefaced,  to  the  sitting- 
room.  As  the  door  closed  behind  her  an 
ominous  hush  fell.  A  smile  upon  the  proud 
plump  face  of  Alice  froze  hard  and  thawed 
suddenly.  Maud  swung  round  upon  the 
revolving  music-stool  and  began  turning  the 
pages  of  Mendelssohn's  Lieder.  Her  mother, 
perched  insecurely  on  the  edge  of  her  chair, 
visibly  suffered.  She  was  always  visibly 
suffering. 

'  Girls  !  '  said  mamma  plaintively  ...  It 
was  enough.  Harriet's  sisters  rose  without  a 
word  and  left  the  room.  Mamma  looked  at 
the  young  man,  but  he  made  no  movement. 
1  Geoffrey  !  '  she  said,  a  world  of  pathos  in  her 
voice.  But  Geoffrey  was  deaf  to  it.  '  This 
concerns  me  too,'  he  said.  '  May  I  smoke  ?  ' 

'Very  well.  Stay,  if  you  wish  to  be  cruel  .  .  .* 
But  this  man,  lost  to  all  sense  of  humanity, 
only  replied  :  'I'm  vulgarly  persistent,  no 
doubt,  but  you  see  I  happen  to  want  Harry/ 

Harry's  mother  turned  twin  orbs  of  suffering 
upon  her  daughter,  and  began  reciting  the 
speech  she  had  prepared. 

'  I'm  sorry,  Harriet,  to  disappoint  you.  I 
understand  your  desire  to  get  away  from  a 

S.E.  £ 


50  SLEEPING    BEAUTY 

troublesome  invalid  mother  and  your  two 
bread-winning  sisters.  But  you  are  God's 
charge  to  me  and  I  must  protect  you.' 

'  From  me  ?  '  inquired  Geoffrey. 

She  did  not  heed  the  interruption. 

*  I    say    nothing    against    Geoffrey,    but    1 
can't  consent  to  anything  in  the  shape  of  an 
engagement    between    you.     For    one    thing 
you  are  as  yet  a  mere  girl  ;  you  know  nothing 
of  life  and  nothing  of  marriage.     And   that 
isn't   all.     Geoffrey   has   told   me   something 
very  sad.     He  has  been  very  open  and  frank 
with  me  :    I  will  say  that  for  him.      We  all 
like    Geoffrey.     But    he's    told    me    that    he 
would  wish  to  be  married  in  an  office.     He  has 
queer  views,  my  dear.     He  even  tells  me  that 
he  only  goes  to  church  to  please  his  mother 
and   father.     I'm   afraid   he's   let   go   of  the 
Saviour's  hand  altogether.     After  that,  I  need 
hardly  say  more.     I  know  my  little  Harriet 
too  well  to  believe  that  she  can  wish  to  give 
mother   pain.     I   already   have  my   Cross   to 
bear.' 

*  Very  well,  mamma.'     Harriet's  eyes  were 
luminous  with  tears. 

At  that  Geoffrey  rose.  '  Then  I'd  better 
clear  off  home  at  once.' 

'  My  dear  Geoffrey,'  protested  his  hostess, 
1  I  know  you  are  thinking  to  spare  my  feelings 


SLEEPING    BEAUTY  51 

after  this  upset.  You're  very  good  to  me 
always.  But  you'll  please  stay  your  week-end. 
We  mustn't  part  in  unfriendliness — and  you 
know  how  I  should  hate  you  to  travel  on 
Sunday.' 

He  could  not  keep  bitterness  out  of  his 
smile,  but  he  replied  cheerfully  enough  : 

'  Well,  Mrs.  Mason,  since  Harry  is  not  to 
be  engaged  to  me  there'll  be  no  harm  in  my 
taking  her  out  for  half  an  hour  before  bed  ? 
Would  you  care  to  come,  Harry  ?  .  .  .  Thanks 
awfully.' 


Harriet  went  to  her  room  in  a  trembling 
ecstasy,  struggling  against  odds  to  believe  that 
she  was  indeed  beautiful,  as  he  had  said.  While 
she  moved  about,  within  the  pink  beflowered 
walls  of  her  very  own  room  (as  in  her  heart 
she  was  wont  to  call  it),  his  voice  still  made 
music  in  her  memory. 

1  Why  will  you  submit  to  be  boxed  up  in 
that  prison  ?  Can't  you  understand  how  I 
want  you  ?  Can't  you  understand  how  lovely 
you  are  ? '  He  had  never  before  been  so 
passionate  in  his  iterations.  And  she  could 
only  shake  her  head,  elated,  yet  with  secret 
misgiving.  He  had  very  queer  ideas,  mamma 
had  said.  Was  this  obsession  by  the  thought 


52  SLEEPING    BEAUTY 

of  beauty  perhaps  one  of  them  ?  But  there 
was  worse  to  follow. 

*  Harry,  are  you  determined  to  give  me  up  ? ' 

She  replied  miserably  :  *  I  can't  go  against 
mamma.  You  wouldn't  have  me  go  against 
mamma.  Oh,  Geoff,  I  would  do  anything  else 
for  you.' 

The  words  were  like  a  match  dropped  in 
dry  stubble.  '  Then  you  do  love  me  ?  You 
do  !  You  do  ! ' 

His  violence  frightened  and  braced  her. 
4  You  know  I  like  you  tremendously,'  she  said, 
grappling  with  the  unknown,  '  better  than 
anyone  else  in  the  world.' 

'  Except  your  mother,'  he  retorted  bitterly, 
and  then  added  in  a  changed  tone  :  '  Harry 
darling,  we've  never  kissed.  Do  you  like  me 
enough  for  that  ?  We  may  never  have  another 
moment  alone.' 

'  Of  course,  you  funny  boy  ! ' 

He  bent  towards  her,  and  she  kissed  him, 
in  friendly  fashion,  on  the  cheek.  '  Happy 
now  ?  '  she  asked,  almost  merrily,  hoping  to 
drive  away  his  tragic  air. 

He  smiled.  '  Not  exactly.'  An  odd  smile 
it  was.  And  at  the  bend  of  the  road,  under 
the  shadow  of  Mrs.  Lavender's  lime  trees,  he 
took  her  face  suddenly  between  his  hands  and 
kissed  her  mouth.  Something  stirred  in  her 


SLEEPING     BEAUTY  53 

but  did  not  awake.  She  could  not  understand 
his  emotion. 

'  Harry,  you  said  you'd  do  anything  for  me. 
Did  you  mean  it  ?  ' 

1  Yes.' 

'  You'll  think  me  strange.  Perhaps  you'll 
be  shocked.  It's  this  :  let  me  see  you.  If 
I'm  to  go  away  from  you,  as  I  must,  let  me 
see  you  just  once,  as  you  really  are.  Give  me 
a  memory  to  take  with  me.' 

Was  he  indeed  mad  ?  Poor  Geoff  !  *  But, 
dear,  you  can  see  me  now.' 

*  Your  face,  your  clothes.  Let  me  see  you, 
all  your  beauty.  Venus  Anadyomene  .  .  .' 

She  burned  with  shame  as  something  of  his 
meaning  dawned  on  her  .  .  .  and  now,  as  she 
stood  in  her  bedroom  re-living  the  scene,  the 
plan  he  had  unfolded  seemed  both  wild  and 
wicked.  Wild  and  wicked,  yes  :  yet  shot 
through  with  a  flash  of  poetry.  An  illumin- 
ated '  Thou  God  seest  me  '  gleamed  at  her 
from  one  wall,  and  a  pledge  to  abstain  by  God's 
help  from  all  intoxicating  liquors  as  beverages, 
signed  in  childish  caligraphy  Harriet  Mason, 
accused  her  from  another.  Wild  and  wicked  ; 
but  in  a  passion  of  gratitude  for  being  loved, 
and  for  the  spark  kindled  within  her,  she  had 
yielded  her  promise. 

1  Thou  God  seest  me.'     Blushing  hotly,  very 


54  SLEEPING    BEAUTY 

conscious  of  that  inquisitive  eye,  she  took  down 
her  hair.  With  a  miniature  clatter  the  pins 
fell  from  nerveless  fingers  on  to  the  glass  sur- 
face of  the  dressing-table.  Slowly  she  un- 
dressed ;  paused  a  moment,  shyly  stroking  her 
slim  nude  body  ;  and  then  with  a  gesture  of 
resolve  slipped  into  her  kimono.  The  eye  of  God 
was  still  upon  her,  but  she  had  given  her  word. 

Her  woolly  slippers  made  no  sound  on  the 
oilcloth  floor.  She  opened  her  door  and  stepped 
into  the  passage.  Opposite  her  was  Geoff's 
door,  left  purposely  ajar.  Tremblingly,  but 
swiftly  lest  fear  should  make  her  false,  she 
crossed  and  entered.  Geoff  made  no  sound. 
She  stood,  too  ashamed  to  look  up,  pushing 
his  door  to  with  a  nervous  backward  movement 
of  the  hand.  It  closed,  not  without  noise. 

Her  lips  moved,  as  in  prayer.  She  lifted 
her  arms  high,  and  her  garment,  slipping  from 
white  shoulders,  fell  and  clustered  at  her  feet, 
a  diaphanous  shimmering  mass. 

'  Lovely,  lovely  .  .  .  O  God  ! '  The  scarce- 
heard  whisper  made  her  heart  leap  in  exulta- 
tion. She  raised  her  head  and  looked  stead- 
fastly at  her  love.  He  sat  up  in  bed,  still  as 
an  image  of  adoration,  the  moonlight  making 
visible  the  worship  in  his  eyes.  She  stooped, 
gathered  up  her  gown,  and  went  out  into  the 
passage  .  .  .  into  the  arms  of  Alice. 


SLEEPING    BEAUTY  55 

'  I  heard  a  door  slam,'  said  Alice.     '  What's 

the  matter  ?    Why,  you've That's  GeofFs 

room  ! ' 

Alice  became  pale  and  for  a  moment  speech- 
less with  anger.  When  she  recovered  her 
tongue  it  was  to  use  a  language  strange  to  the 
ears  of  Harriet. 

*  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,'  cried  Harriet, 
starry-eyed,  *  and  I  don't  care.  He  loves  me, 
Alice,  because  I  am  so  beautiful,  beautiful. 
Why  didn't  you  tell  me  I  was  beautiful  ? ' 

She  pushed  past  Alice  and  locked  herself 
in  her  bedroom.  Those  bitter  reproaches  had 
no  sting  for  her.  Even  had  she  understood 
them  they  would  have  been  less  than  a  feather's 
weight  against  the  joy  now  born  in  her  heart. 
For  her  the  world  was  made  new,  clean  and 
new.  With  beauty,  seen  hitherto  through  a 
glass  darkly,  she  was  now  face  to  face.  She 
fell  asleep  exhausted  with  happiness,  and  when 
in  the  morning  mamma  came  to  her  room 
and  sobbed,  and  raved,  she  could  understand 
not  a  word  of  it. 

1  You've  brought  disgrace  and  shame  upon 
us  all,  you  wretched  child  ! '  And  to  this 
Harriet,  in  her  profound  innocence,  could  only 
answer  :  '  But  we  love  each  other,  mamma. 
What  harm  have  we  done  ?  ' 

'  You  shall  leave  my  house  as  soon  as  that 


56  SLEEPING    BEAUTY 

man  can  be  made  to  marry  you,  and  never 
come  back  again.' 

'  Am  I  to  marry  Geoff  after  all,  then, 
mamma  ?  " 

Yes,  it  appeared  that  she  was,  and  that  her 
daring  to  ask  the  question  was  further  proof 
of  her  shamelessness.  It  was  all  very  baffling. 


THE    ENCHANTED   MOMENT 


THE    ENCHANTED    MOMENT 

MR.  JOHN  PARDOE  was  not  an 
imaginative  man,  but — if  the  truth 
must  be  known — he  had  once  been  a  child,  and 
though,  as  Mr.  Pardoe  aged,  the  child  grew 
smaller  and  smaller,  it  was  not  yet  squeezed 
out  of  existence.  The  secret  had  been  well 
kept.  Plump,  rosy,  and  forty-five  years  old, 
encased  in  patent-toe  boots,  doeskin  spats, 
sleek  morning  coat,  striped  trousering,  and 
silk  hat — not  to  mention  certain  articles  of 
underwear — Mr.  Pardoe  oscillated  daily  be- 
tween his  office  in  Cannon  Street  and  his 
pleasant  home  at  Putney,  giving  no  cause  to 
his  dearest  friend  or  his  bitterest  enemy  to 
suspect  him  of  having  a  secret  hoard  of  youth. 
His  waking  mind  was  occupied  exclusively  by 
lighterage,  freight  duties,  marine  insurance, 
bus  routes,  time  tables,  foreign  exchange  rates, 
and  the  criminal  ineptitude  of  the  Government 
party  ;  and  his  dreams,  which  rose  only  to 
the  bait  of  cheese  and  spring  onions  for  supper, 
reflected  his  general  staidness  of  character  with 

59 


60     THE     ENCHANTED    MOMENT 

a  minimum  of  humorous  distortion.  For 
more  than  a  decade  he  had  lived  within  half  a 
mile  of  the  house  that  held  Swinburne,  and  he 
was  still  unaware  of  having  anything  in  parti- 
cular to  thank  God  for. 

But  in  his  forty-sixth  year,  when  he  had 
already  begun  to  cherish  some  of  the  idiosyn- 
crasies proper  to  a  much  older  man  and  to 
regard  with  complacency  his  shining  porcelain 
pate  and  his  fringe  of  greying  hair,  something 
happened  to  Mr.  Pardoe  that  was  the  beginning 
of  a  spiritual  revolution.  The  something  was 
named  Miss  Adela  Simpson,  and  it  had  for 
many  years  typed  his  business  letters  with  an 
enthusiasm  and  a  generous  disregard  for 
pedantry  in  spelling  which  would  have  been 
hard  to  match  in  any  other  city  office.  Per- 
haps it  was  Mr.  Pardoe's  patience  with  these 
orthographical  freedoms  that  won  Adela's 
affection,  or  perhaps  she  alone  of  all  his  acquain- 
tances had  divined  the  existence  of  that  child 
in  him  which  I  have  felt  it  my  duty  to  mention. 
Whatever  the  cause,  she  married  him  ;  and, 
being  herself  a  fluffy,  golden-haired,  and 
sentimental  creature,  with  an  unbounded  capa- 
city for  enjoyment,  she  persuaded  him  that  he 
was  very  happy  with  her.  Had  the  matter 
ended  there,  all  might  have  been  well  :  Mr. 
Pardoe  might  have  lived  and  died  decorously, 


THE    ENCHANTED    MOMENT    61 

a  plain  man  with  no  nonsense  about  him.  The 
youth  in  him  might  have  remained  bottled 
and  out  of  sight  for  ever,  had  not  Adela  tam- 
pered with  the  cork. 

But  destiny,  in  the  person  of  Mrs.  Pardoe, 
chose  to  play  tricks  on  this  excellent  man. 
Some  eighteen  months  after  that  rational 
registry  wedding,  the  flurry  girl  insisted  on 
giving  birth  to  a  boy.  The  local  doctor 
assisted  its  entry,  and  the  local  vicar  declared 
its  name  to  be  Timothy.  I  have  already  said 
that  Mr.  Pardoe  was  not  an  imaginative  man, 
and  this  event  was  quite  outside  his  calculations. 
Being  both  by  instinct  and  training  a  gentleman 
of  considerable  delicacy,  he  was  embarrassed — 
as  who  would  not  be  ? — and  quite  unable  to 
assume,  at  short  notice,  the  role  of  fond  parent. 
But  as  the  weeks  passed  by  and  the  red  squeak- 
ing pudding  called  Timothy  began  to  shew 
some  traces  of  its  humanity,  began  even  to 
bear  a  slight  resemblance  to  himself,  a  change 
more  subtle  but  no  less  real  occurred  in  the 
feelings  of  the  reluctant  father.  For  one 
thing,  the  preposterous  littleness  of  the  creature 
attracted  his  notice  and  excited  his  wonder. 
Sometimes  when  he  looked  at  Timothy  Mr. 
Pardoe's  face  would  break  into  a  wholly 
irrational  grin.  Once  or  twice,  when  no 
one  was  near,  he  presented  his  index  finger  to 


62    THE    ENCHANTED     MOMENT 

be  enfolded  in  miniature  hands  of  unparalleled 
clamminess,  or  played  the  fool  with  his  watch  ; 
and  once,  once  only,  he  blushed  to  find  him- 
self making  ridiculous  noises,  noises  not 
unlike  those  emitted  habitually  by  the  child's 
agreeable  but  infatuated  mother. 

The  translation  of  Mr.  Pardoe  from  a 
serious  man  with  business  responsibilities  and 
a  taste  for  party  politics  into  a  kind  of  domestic 
pet,  thinker  of  thoughts  too  deep  for  tears, 
and  lover  of  children — this  translation  might 
have  continued  apace  had  not  the  cook  sud- 
denly, wantonly,  left  to  get  married.  Adela, 
luxuriating  in  her  new  freedom,  decided  to 
manage  without  a  cook  ;  but  Adela's  cooking 
was  no  more  precise  than  her  spelling.  It 
played  havoc  with  Mr.  Pardoe's  digestive 
apparatus,  and — by  that  transmutation  of 
matter  into  spirit  which  is  the  most  discon- 
certing fact  in  life — Mr.  Pardoe's  digestive 
apparatus  played  havoc  with  Mr.  Pardoe's 
temper.  He  became  angry  with  the  world 
and  with  the  life  that  crawled  upon  its  surface. 

Nevertheless  the  world  continued  to  revolve, 
and  life  was  not  extinct.  Timothy,  in  parti- 
cular, was  far  from  extinct.  For  five  years 
he  flourished,  and  on  his  fifth  birthday,  at  an 
hour  well  past  his  bedtime,  he  entered  Mr. 
Pardoe's  study  and  demanded  to  be  told  a  story. 


THE    ENCHANTED    MOMENT    63 

Mr.  Pardoe,  interrupted  in  the  reading  of 
his  favourite  periodical,  The  Bondholder's 
Register,  was  annoyed.  Birthday  or  no  birth- 
day, this  was  an  outrage  :  the  sanctuary 
violated,  the  high  priest  disturbed  at  his 
devotions.  Yet,  in  spite  of  his  dyspepsia, 
he  exhibited  an  admirable  restraint. 

'  No,  Timothy,'  he  said,  holding  up  a 
cautionary  finger.  '  I  shall  not  tell  you  a 
story.  You  know  I  do  not  like  to  be  disturbed 
in  the  evening.  You  will  go  to  bed,  and  at 
the  proper  moment  I  shall  come  to  kiss  you 
good  night.  But  tell  you  a  story  I  will  not. 
I  see  your  mother's  hand  in  this — this  act  of 
rebellion.  If  you  wanted  stories  you  could  go 
to  your  toy-cupboard,  where  you  would  find 
several  volumes  of  stories  :  ridiculous  enough, 
no  doubt,  but  suited  to  your  age.  Although 
you  cannot  yet  read  with  facility  you  could 
easily  amuse  yourself  with  the  pictures.  Really, 
Timothy,  I  can't  imagine  why  you  should 
suppose  that  I  should  tell  you  a  story,  a  thing 
I  have  never  done  in  my  life.' 

As  a  substitute  for  an  applauding  public  meet- 
ing of  the  company's  shareholders,  Timothy 
was  not  a  success.  He  clung  to  his  simple 
thesis  with  the  brutal  tenacity  of  the  very 
young.  '  Mummy  says  you  are  to  tell  me  a 
story.' 


64    THE    ENCHANTED    MOMENT 

The  fluffy  girl  appeared  suddenly  in  the 
doorway.  *  Yes,  John,  you  really  might,  this 
once.  He's  tired  of  my  stories.  And  it's 
his  birthday,  after  all,  poor  little  thing  !  ' 

'  Poor  little  thing  !  '  sneered  Mr.  Pardoe. 
This  was  sheer  domestic  tyranny  :  he  wouldn't 
suffer  it.  '  Let  me  tell  you,  Adela,'  he  cried, 
pointing  at  her  accusingly  with  The  Bond- 
holder's Register^  *  you  are  spoiling  the  poor 
little  thing,  as  you  call  him.  It's  eight 
o'clock,  an  hour  past  his  bedtime.  The  way 
to  bring  a  child  up.  .  .  .' 

But  here  Mr.  Pardoe  was  interrupted,  and  a 
valuable  homily  on  the  training  of  children 
thereby  lost  to  the  world.  The  clock  began 
striking.  Now  it  was  one  of  Mr.  Pardoe's 
nervous  weaknesses,  of  which  there  were 
many,  that  he  could  never  raise  his  voice 
above  the  sound  of  a  striking  clock.  He 
disliked  clocks.  He  resented  their  unman- 
nerly habit  of  cutting  his  sentences  in  half 
and  making  him  lose  the  thread  of  his  dis- 
course. And  now  he  had  to  wait  several 
seconds  until  that  clock  chose  to  let  him 
proceed  with  what  he  was  saying.  Very  well  : 
he  resigned  himself  to  the  delay.  His  face  was 
that  of  a  martyr  too  well-bred  even  to  invoke 
his  God.  He  mentally  counted  the  strokes  : 
'  One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven.  .  .  .' 


THE    ENCHANTED    MOMENT    65 

'  Why  !  '  cried  Mr.  Pardoe,  '  that  clock's 
wrong.  An  hour  slow.  I'm  sure  it's  eight 
o'clock.  I  set  my  watch  this  morning  by 

r*  •    i.    T"  >  of 

Greenwich   lime.  ... 


The  words  died  on  his  lips,  which  remained 
open  only  because  in  his  bewilderment  Mr. 
Pardoe  forgot  to  close  them.  He  seemed 
to  have  stepped  into  the  very  heart  of  Spring. 
The  sounds  and  colours  and  the  rich  earthy 
smell  of  the  woods  made  him  tingle  with 
delight.  Never  before  had  he  breathed  such 
air.  It  was  like  strong  wine  in  its  effect,  and 
that  alarmed  Mr.  Pardoe,  who  dreaded  nothing 
so  much  as  to  lose  control  of  himself.  For 
him  the  light  of  reason  was  the  only  legitimate 
light  in  the  universe  :  moonlight,  starlight, 
sunlight — these  were  merely  decorative.  '  No 
wonder  the  fruit  is  so  fine,'  he  said  to  himself  ; 
and  he  plucked  one  of  the  golden  apples  from  a 
laden  branch  that  bowed  towards  him,  and  set 
his  teeth  in  it  with  a  disregard  of  the  rights  of 
property  that  was  quite  foreign  to  his  prin- 
ciples. All  round  him  tall  grasses  waved, 
and  satin-skinned  trees  stretched  out  armfuls 
of  treasure,  their  leaves  luminously  green,  their 
fruit  glowing  like  multi-coloured  glass  globes. 

S.E.  F 


66    THE    ENCHANTED    MOMENT 

Mr.  Pardoe  began  to  revise  his  first  impression. 
It  could  hardly  be  Spring  with  all  this  fruit 
already  ripe  for  eating,  and  in  such  abundance, 
such  astonishing  variety  !  Apple,  pear,  plum, 
greengage,  lemon,  pomegranate,  quince — 
*  Why,  with  greengages  at  their  present  price, 
there's  a  small  fortune  here  !  '  He  wondered 
whether  there  was  a  market  within  easy  dis- 
tance. There  was  no  sort  of  road  within 
sight  :  there  was  only  a  long  avenue  of  arched 
trees,  in  the  branches  of  which  birds  sang  with 
laughter  as  well  as  joy  in  their  tumultuous 
music.  At  his  feet,  wherever  he  stepped, 
flowers  sprang  up  as  if  to  greet  him  :  lilies 
lifted  their  pale  faces  towards  him  ;  roses  red 
and  blue  rioted  in  the  grass  ;  pansies  eyed  him 
amorously.  A  sound  that  was  like  colour 
made  audible,  a  deep  golden  sound,  a  singing 
dream,  filled  the  forest  till  it  brimmed  over  with 
loveliness.  In  the  dim  glowing  air  shot  through 
by  shafts  of  moonlight  from  the  outer  world, 
great  dragonflies  poised  themselves,  lost  in 
trance.  '  A  trifle  theatrical,  perhaps,'  said  Mr. 
Pardoe,  '  but  undeniably  pretty.' 

Moving  slowly  on,  he  racked  his  poor  brains 
for  a  rational  explanation  of  these  phenomena. 
Nature,  hitherto  so  circumspect,  was  behaving 
in  a  most  unbridled  way.  A  voice  dropped 
out  of  the  sky,  like  a  bell  :  '  Greenwich  Time, 


THE    ENCHANTED    MOMENT    67 

my  dear  sir  ?  Good  stuff,  isn't  it  !  Come 
and  have  some.' 

'  Thank  you.  But  I  never  drink  between 
meals.'  The  reply  came  from  Mr.  Pardoe's 
lips  before  he  could  check  it.  This  was 
absurd — he  of  all  men  to  have  an  experience 
like  this  !  Indignantly  he  stared  in  the 
direction  of  the  voice  that  had  hailed  him.  A 
little  golden  star  appeared  to  be  falling  through 
the  sky.  It  lodged  in  the  lower  branches  of 
a  tree,  writhed  brilliantly  for  a  moment,  and 
resolved  itself  into  a  human  being  :  a  creature 
about  the  size  of  a  foot-rule  with  a  round  red 
baby-face.  It  jumped  to  the  ground  and 
shook  lumps  of  starshine  from  the  soles  of  its 
wooden  boots.  *  Excuse  me,  won't  you.  I've 
been  shopping.  A  fellow  gets  simply  smoth- 
ered with  this  stuff  in  the  Milky  Way.' 

Mr.  Pardoe  bowed.  '  It  is  for  me  to 
apologize,  if  you,  as  I  surmise,  are  the  proprietor 
of  this  valuable  piece  of  orchard-land.  I 
fear  I  am  trespassing.  I  must  have  lost  my 
way.  To  be  perfectly  frank  with  you,  I've 
not  the  slightest  idea  how  I  got  here  ;  and  let 
me  hasten  to  add  that  I'm  a  strictly  temperate 
man.  I  rather  fancy  that  I've  been  made  the 
victim  of  some  clownish  practical  joke.' 

The  midget  shed  a  scintillating  tear,  which 
made  a  circle  of  green  light  in  the  grass  where 


68    THE    ENCHANTED    MOMENT 

it  fell.  From  his  pocket  he  snatched  a  note- 
book. '  I  must  make  a  note  of  that,'  he 
said. 

'  Of  what  ?  '  inquired  Mr.  Pardoe. 

4  That  tear.  I've  got  only  six  to  last  the 
whole  evening.  I  limit  myself  to  ten  a  day 
now.  It's  bad  to  become  a  slave  to  pleasure.' 

Mr.  Pardoe  coughed  to  hide  his  alarm  and 
embarrassment.  '  Yes,  yes.  Quite  so.  Did 
you  read  your  paper  this  morning,  my  dear 
sir  ?  What  a  disgraceful  Budget  again  1 ' 

'  Ah,'  cried  the  midget,  turning  up  his  eyes  ; 
'  what  is  there  more  enjoyable  than  a  choking 
sob  on  a  cold  Wednesday  morning  before 
breakfast  ?  And  they  ought  not  to  have 
taken  your  clothes.  I  can't  allow  that.' 

'  My  clothes  ! '  Mr.  Pardoe  blushed  from 
top  to  toe,  and  that  blush  was  the  only  thing 
that  covered  his  nakedness.  '  Incredible  ! 
It  had  entirely  escaped  my  notice.  I  really 
don't  know  how  to  apologize.  I  am  more 
ashamed  than  I  can  say.  This  is  a  disaster 
that  has  never  happened  before.  Whatever 
am  I  to  do  ?  ' 

'  A  happy  encounter,'  chuckled  the  midget, 
rubbing  his  hands  together.  '  I'm  a  tailor  by 
trade.  Fit  you  out  in  no  time.  Three  yards 
of  gossamer  spun  out  of  lovers '-dream.  The 
finer  the  mesh  the  higher  the  price.  Excuse 


THE    ENCHANTED    MOMENT    69 

my  speaking  commercially,  but  business  is 
business,  you  know.' 

For  the  first  time  Mr.  Pardoe's  heart 
went  out  to  this  odd  creature.  *  I  share  your 
admirable  sentiments.  Business  is  business. 
But  I  deplore  this  rather  fanciful  talk  about 
dreams  and  gossamer,  this — ah — second-rate 
poetry,  if  I  may  call  it  so.  But  there,  I'm  only 
a  plain  business  man.' 

'  Do  you  believe  in  God  ?  '  asked  the  midget 
surprisingly. 

Mr.  Pardoe  looked  revolted.  '  A  rather 
indelicate  question,  is  it  not  ?  However,  since 
you  have  seen  fit  to  ask  it,  I  will  confess  that 
I  have  never  found  any  particular  need  for 
believing  in  the  Person  to  whom  you  allude.' 

The  midget  put  out  his  tongue,  looking 
inconceivably  pert.  '  I'm  God,'  said  he. 

'  Pardon  me,'  Mr.  Pardoe  replied,  with 
immense  dignity.  *  I  cannot  stand  here  and 
listen  to  blasphemy.  I  am  a  member  of  the 
Church  of  England.' 

'  Don't  know  the  name,'  said  the  midget. 
1  If  it's  an  inn,  take  me  to  it,  like  a  good 
fellow.' 

*  Before  we  continue  this  conversation,' 
said  Mr.  Pardoe,  beginning  to  relish  the 
sound  of  his  own  voice,  '  I  feel  it  only  fair 
to  say  that  I  entertain  the  gravest  suspicions 


70     THE    ENCHANTED    MOMENT 

of  you.  I  suspect  you  of  being  a  figment  of 
my  imagination,  perhaps  a  mere  dream.  I 
am  not  aware  of  having  eaten  anything  calcu- 
lated to  disagree  with  me,  but  that  is  what  has 
probably  happened.  It's  a  lesson  to  me,  which 
I  shall  not  easily  forget,  that  one  cannot  be  too 
careful  about  one's  diet.* 

*  I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about,' 
remarked  the  midget.  He  paused  to  draw 
three  circles  in  the  grass  with  the  point  of  his 
foot.  '  But  if  you  want  some  Greenwich 
Time  you've  come  to  the  right  place.  Slip 
these  shoes  on.'  In  the  centre  of  the  middle 
circle  was  a  pair  of  loose-fitting  shoes,  rather 
like  goloshes,  made  of  the  skin  of  a  green  reptile. 
It  seemed  to  be  covered  with  eyes.  Mr. 
Pardoe,  convinced  now  that  he  was  dreaming, 
obediently  slipped  his  feet  into  these  shoes, 
which  immediately  began  to  dance.  He  found 
it  impossible  to  control  them.  That  didn't 
surprise  him  so  much  as  did  his  enjoyment  of 
the  dance.  '  Come  along,'  said  the  midget, 
kicking  up  his  heels,  and  Mr.  Pardoe,  following 
in  the  wake  of  that  preposterous  figment  of  his 
imagination,  danced  down  the  avenues  of 
Faery  with  a  light  heart.  Something  was 
released  inside  him.  He  felt  himself  shrink 
till  he  was  scarcely  bigger  than  his  guide, 
and  the  loss  of  that  frock  coat  and  that  pair  of 


THE    ENCHANTED     MOMENT     71 

nicely  creased  striped  trousers  distressed  him 
no  longer.  Was  it  possible  that  the  child  he 
had  secreted  so  long  had  at  last  broken  out, 
and  that  the  old  John  Pardoe,  that  bond- 
holding,  cheque-endorsing  animal,  was  no 
more  ?  Was  it  possible  that  he  had  died,  and 
that  this  was  the  glorious  resurrection  promised 
to  the  faithful  ?  Mr.  Pardoe's  thoughts  buzzed 
in  his  brain  like  a  hive  of  bees  when  he  remem- 
bered this  little  tailor-fellow's  blasphemous 
claim  to  godhead. 

Nothing  more  unlike  Mr.  Pardoe's  con- 
ception of  God  can  be  imagined  than  the  ruddy- 
faced  mischievous  creature  who  stood  in  the 
doorway  of  his  house  to  welcome  his  guest. 
The  house  bore  a  striking  resemblance  to  a 
country  inn,  the  best  kind  of  country  inn,  and 
Mr.  Pardoe  fell  instantly  in  love  with  it.  The 
sight  of  it  induced  in  him  a  thirst  such 
as  he  had  never  in  all  his  life  experienced 
before. 

'  You'd  like  to  see  my  beard,  I  expect,' 
remarked  his  host,  as  they  stepped  across  the 
threshold.  '  Well,  there  it  is.'  He  waved  a 
careless  hand  towards  the  centre  of  the  oak- 
raftered  room,  where,  in  a  flower-pot  that  stood 
in  the  middle  of  the  table,  a  grey  beard 
flourished. 

Mr.  Pardoe  scatched  his  head  :    sure  proof 


72    THE    ENCHANTED    MOMENT 

that  he  was  feeling  more  at  home.  '  Now  I 
can't  quite  place  that,'  he  said,  reverting  to  the 
idea  that  he  was  in  a  dream.  *  The  dancing 
shoes  were  from  Hans  Andersen,  but  this  for 
the  moment  eludes  me.* 

'  It's  a  good  growth,'  said  the  beard's 
owner.  '  Never  gives  any  trouble.  Great 
advantage,  not  wearing  it  on  the  chin.  Some 
of  my  clients  don't  care  about  a  bearded 
tailor.  And  to  those  who  do,  I  say  :  Step 
inside.  A  place  for  everything  and  every- 
thing in  its  place,  and  the  place  for  my  beard 
is  the  parlour.  Very  quiet  and  well-behaved, 
and  drinks  far  less  water  than  an  aspidistra. 
If  it  sings  too  loud  I  just  snip  it  down  a  bit 
with  me  scissors.' 

'  The  Singing  Beard,'  mused  Mr.  Pardoe. 
'  That  must  be  a  public-house  sign  I've  come 
across  somewhere.' 

'  Now,'  urged  the  genial  tailor,  *  what  about 
a  little  refreshment.  Or  would  you  rather  I 
set  about  that  suit  of  clothes  first  ?  ' 

The  eyes  of  the  abandoned  Pardoe  sparkled. 
He  visioned  a  wineglass,  the  size  of  a  milking- 
pail,  filled  with  champagne.  He  felt  it  against 
his  lips,  felt  it  slip  down  his  dry  throat,  and 
sink  into  his  innermost  being  like  a  bene- 
diction .  .  .  He  looked  at  his  host  with  a 
little  shamefaced  smile.  '  Well,  if  it's  all  the 


THE     ENCHANTED    MOMENT    73 

same  to  you  ...  if  you'll  excuse  my  rather 
unconventional  appearance  .  .  .' 

'  Come  down  to  the  cellar,'  cried  his  friend, 
taking  him  by  the  arm,  '  the  Cellar  of  a  Thou- 
sand Bottles.'  Still  gripping  Mr.  Pardoe,  he 
stamped  thirstily  on  the  floor.  A  trapdoor 
opened.  They  shot  into  the  cellar  with 
lightning  speed,  and  before  he  could  remember 
his  manners  Mr.  Pardoe  was  knocking  the 
tops  off  bottles  with  a  skill  that  in  cooler 
moments  would  have  astounded  him. 

'  There  you  are  !  '  cried  the  little  tailor. 
'  Greenwich  Time  on  every  label.  Look  for 
our  trademark  and  refuse  imitations.'  He 
drank  copious  draughts.  He  became  confi- 
dential, even  affectionate.  '  Now  that's  the 
difference  between  you  and  me.  Your  name's 
Pardoe.  That  just  shews  the  difference  be- 
tween you  and  me.  Now  my  name's  Dionysus,' 
he  went  on,  with  a  radiant  smile.  '  It's  a  good 
name.  And  me  father's  name  was  Dionysus 
before  me.  But  me  grandfather — ah,  that's 
another  story.' 

*  And  what,  my  little  man,  was  your  grand- 
father's name  ?  '  enquired  Mr.  Pardoe,  waving 
his  glass  in  air. 

'  Oh,  me  grandfather  ?  Were  you  asking 
after  me  grandfather  ?  Ah,  his  name,  don't 
you  see,  was  Dionysus.  They  distinguished 


74     THE    ENCHANTED    MOMENT 

us  one  from  the  other  by  our  trades.  We 
were  tailors,  you  know,  all  three  of  us.' 

Mr.  Pardoe  rose  to  his  feet.  The  per- 
formance was  a  credit  to  him.  He  made  a 
last  effort  to  exorcise  the  demon  of  levity  that 
possessed  him.  '  My  friend,  you  have  had 
enough.  More  than  enough.  You  are  in- 
toxicated.* 

Dionysus  paused  in  his  drinking  to  fix  a 
waggish  eye  on  Mr.  Pardoe.  '  Drunk.  Drunk 
as  a  god.  Aren't  you  !  Why  the  devil  don't 
you  drink  ?  Imprison  you  for  sobriety.' 

He  held  a  brimming  glass  to  the  lips  of  Mr. 
Pardoe,  and,  as  he  drank,  the  poor  bewitched 
gentleman  saw  his  host  swell  till  the  house 
could  no  longer  contain  that  vast  bulk.  Him- 
self a  flame  of  exultation,  Mr.  Pardoe  stared 
until  the  eyes  of  Dionysus  became  fierce  seas, 
sparkling  with  unearthly  light,  towering  in 
storm,  and  the  glory  of  his  sunset-face  filled  the 
sky. 

3 

'  .  .  .  eight.'  The  last  stroke  of  eight 
o'clock.  Mr.  Pardoe,  rubbing  his  eyes,  saw 
that  his  wife's  face  still  wore  the  expression  of 
bored  patience  with  which  she  was  accustomed 
to  receive  his  domestic  sermons,  and  that 
Timothy,  as  before,  balanced  himself  on  one 


THE    ENCHANTED    MOMENT     75 

leg  and  jerked  his  body  backwards  and  for- 
wards by  way  of  passing  time.  They  seemed 
to  be  waiting  for  him. 

'  What's  this  ?  '  cried  Mr.  Pardoe,  staring 
at  the  paper  in  his  hand.  He  recognized  The 
Bondholder  s  Register.  An  alarming  idea 
visited  him.  '  Am  I  .  .  .  ? '  He  looked 
down  at  his  legs,  stroked  his  arms.  Yes,  he 
was.  He  breathed  deeply  in  his  relief.  '  My 
dear,  did  you  notice  anything,  anything 
unusual  ?  * 

Blank  faces  greeted  him. 

'  Between  the  seventh  and  eighth  stroke 
of  the  hour — did  anything  happen  to  me  ?  ' 

His  wife  took  a  step  towards  him.  Her 
eyes  became  anxious.  '  No,  dear.  Are  you 
feeling  ill  ?  * 

*  No,  no.  Perfectly  well.  Just  a  whim 
of  mine.  A  mere  fancy.  Nothing  at  all. 
Nothing.' 

'  Oh,  father  ! '  said  Timothy,  for  the  fourth 
time,  '  you  might  tell  me  a  story.' 

Mr.  Pardoe  turned  to  the  boy  with  enthu- 
siasm. He  beamed  paternal  affection  upon 
him.  *  Yes,  old  man.  Come  along.  A  story 
before  we  go  to  bed,  eh  ?  ...  Once  upon  a 
time  there  was  a  tailor  who  lived  in  the  forest 
and  kept  a  beard,  a  grey  beard,  which  sang 
pretty  tunes.  .  .  .' 


THE     MOLE 


\ 


THE    MOLE 

/CONVERSATION  turned  inevitably  to  the 
Y^  local  tragedy  that  was  agitating  all  the 
village.  The  little  general  store,  the  only  shop 
the  place  boasted  and  a  poor  thing  at  that, 
had  been  burned  down  in  the  night,  and  noth- 
ing remained  but  the  heap  of  ruins  from  which, 
not  many  hours  since,  two  charred  corpses  had 
been  removed.  Our  chessmen  stood  in  battle 
array,  ready  for  action,  but  unnoticed  by  either 
of  us.  Something  in  Saunders's  manner  held 
my  attention.  Sceptic  though  I  am,  I  have 
always  found  him  interesting.  He  pays  me 
the  compliment  of  divesting  himself  of  his 
rectorship  when  he  visits  me,  and  it  has  flat- 
tered my  vanity  to  believe  that  I  see  a  side  of 
him  that  is  for  ever  hidden  from  those  of  his 
parishioners  who  assemble  Sunday  by  Sunday 
to  receive  from  him  their  spiritual  ration.  And 
I  was  the  more  intrigued  because  I  divined 
depths  in  him  still  to  be  explored. 

Perhaps  I  am  over-fanciful,  said  Saunders, 
edging  his  chair  nearer  to  the  fire  ;    but  it 

79 


8o  THE    MOLE 

had  always  seemed  to  me  that  there  was  more 
in  their  marriage  than  the  mere  female  domina- 
tion so  obvious  to  every  one.  And  when  poor 
Gubbins  came  to  me  last  winter,  with  the  story 
that  I'm  going  to  tell  you,  my  guess  was  con- 
firmed. Mrs.  Gubbins  wore  the  breeches — a 
vulgar  phrase  for  a  vulgar  thing — but  that 
wasn't  all.  I  shall  never  forget  my  first  visit 
to  her  shop.  You've  seen  the  woman  scores 
of  times,  but  I'll  tell  you  the  impression  she 
made  on  me.  Her  face  was  leather  ;  her  nose 
was  pinched  and  pitiless  ;  her  eyes — did  you 
ever  notice  her  eyes  ?  You'd  expect  her  to 
possess  the  malignant  dominating  eyes  of  the 
shrew.  No  such  thing.  Mrs.  Gubbins's  eyes 
resembled  those  of  a  mask,  or  of  a  corpse  : 
they  were  fixed,  so  it  seemed  to  me,  in  a  cold, 
everlasting,  fishy  scrutiny  of  a  drab  world.  If 
they  were  the  windows  of  her  soul,  they  were 
windows  made  of  frosted  glass.  Looking  at 
them  I  seemed  to  see  vacuity  behind  them. 
Looking  again,  I  surmised  a  soul  indeed,  but 
a  damned  soul.  A  professional  prejudice,  per- 
haps, that  you  won't  sympathize  with.  But  it 
was  not  her  eyes  that  most  disturbed  me.  I 
have  seen  a  variety  of  unpleasant  eyes.  But  I 
have  never  seen  on  any  human  being  so  ugly  a 
mole  as  was  on  that  woman's  chin.  It  was 
about  the  size  of  a  pea,  and  growing  from  it 


THEMOLE  8 1 

were  three  longish  black  whiskers.  The  thing 
looked  positively  feline.  It  became  for  me, 
as  soon  as  I  caught  sight  of  it,  her  most 
significant  feature.  And  that,  too,  proved  a 
good  guess/ 

I  had  gone  to  the  shop  ostensibly  to  buy  a 
cake  of  soap,  but  really  in  the  hope  of  catching 
a  glimpse  of  a  human  soul,  of  two  human  souls. 
I  had  heard  queer  accounts  of  this  couple,  and 
I  was  curious. 

'  A  cake  of  soap,  please,  Mrs.  Gubbins.'  I 
was  then  a  stranger  to  her,  as  to  all  the  village, 
but  my  use  of  her  name  evoked  no  sign  of 
life  in  those  glassy  eyes  of  hers.  She  turned 
to  her  husband,  that  mild  little  man  with 
dreaming  eyes  and  a  trim  beard  who  looked 
just  what  he  was,  a  lay  preacher  with  a  taste 
for  fantastic  prophecy.  He  was  sitting  at  the 
back  of  the  shop  on  a  case  of  sugar,  or  some- 
thing of  the  kind,  engrossed  in  reading  his 
pocket  Bible. 

'  Run  along,'  said  Mrs.  Gubbins,  in  her  flat 
expressionless  voice.  '  Soap,  George  !  You 
know  where  it  is  1 

The  little  man  looked  up  with  the  air  of 
one  dragged  unwillingly  from  a  dream.  In 
his  small  rabbit-eyes  Christian  patience  did 
battle  with  resentment.  I  seemed  to  scent  a 
crisis.  Had  the  woman  nagged  him  for  his 

8.E.  O 


8z  THE    MOLE 

idleness  I  couldn't  have  blamed  her.  But 
what  interested  me  was  not  the  rights  and 
wrongs  of  the  quarrel,  but  its  method. 

He  blinked  at  her  defiantly.  There  was  a 
pregnant  silence  during  which  they  stared  at 
each  other.  Then  the  woman,  protruding  her 
chin,  elongating  her  thin  neck,  bent  a  little 
towards  him.  I  was  dumbfounded  with 
astonishment  and  a  kind  of  morbid  curiosity. 
For  the  moment  it  seemed  to  me  that  she  must 
be  mutely  demanding  a  kiss  in  token  of  his 
submission  ;  but  while  I  watched,  fascinated 
out  of  my  good  manners,  she  lifted  her  hand 
slowly  and  placed  her  index  finger  upon  the 
point  of  her  chin.  It  flashed  on  me  that  she 
was  directing  his  attention  to  that  mole  of 
hers. 

Gubbins  averted  his  eyes  and  slid  off  the 
seat.  '  Yes,  dear  ! '  he  muttered,  and  dis- 
appeared into  the  bowels  of  the  shop. 


Secrets  of  the  confessional  ?  Yes,  in  a  sense. 
But  Gubbins  wouldn't  grudge  you  the  story 
now.  It  was  during  that  phenomenally  cold 
spell  in  November,  fifteen  months  ago,  that 
he  came  to  me.  That  he  came  to  me  at  all 
should  tell  you  something  of  his  anguish  of 


THEMOLE  83 

spirit,  if  you  knew  the  man.  Everybody  knew 
him  to  be  a  deeply  religious  person,  of  the 
Bible-punching  kind,  but  not  everybody  guessed 
how  his  particular  conception  of  reality  had 
eaten  into  his  mind.  He  could  prove  to  you 
by  an  elaborate  system  of  Scriptural  cross- 
references  that  the  Day  of  Judgment  was  due 
to  occur  in  the  summer  of  1950  ;  and  the 
geography  of  heaven  was  more  familiar  to  him, 
and  more  concrete,  than  the  chairs  and  tables 
in  his  own  house  or  the  streets  of  this  village. 
Two-thirds  of  him  lived  among  these  precise 
humourless  dreams  of  his,  dreams  that  were 
the  fruit  not  of  mystical  experience  but  of  a 
laborious  investigation,  with  rule  and  compass 
and  a  table  of  logarithms,  extended  over  fifteen 
years.  Two-thirds  of  him — that  means  he  was 
more  than  a  little  unbalanced.  He  was  a 
preposterous  combination  of  arrogance  and 
humility  :  we  had  many  a  friendly  argument 
together,  though  the  friendliness,  I  fancy,  was 
rather  on  my  side.  Blandly  certain  of  being 
the  custodian  of  divine  truth,  he  was  yet  piti- 
fully dubious  about  his  own  chance  of  salvation 
and  almost  crazy  in  his  forlorn  pursuit  of  the 
love  of  God.  Almost,  but  not  quite  :  in  the 
medical  sense  he  was  undoubtedly  as  sane  as 
you  or  I.  Me  and  all  my  kind  he  disliked 
because  we  receive  payment  for  preaching 


84  THE    MOLE 

Christ.     That  is  what  makes  his  appeal  to  me 
so  remarkable  an  event. 

Well,  he  came  to  the  Rectory  and  was 
admitted  by  the  maid,  loyal  to  her  orders  to 
exclude  no  one,  but  scared.  I  found  him 
standing  on  my  study  hearthrug,  his  face 
ashen,  his  lean  hairy  hands  clutching  a  cloth 
cap  as  though  it  were  his  only  hold  on  safety. 
The  white  knuckles  gleamed  like  polished 
ivory.  I  saw  the  fear  that  flared  in  his  tiny 
eyes  and  guessed  that  he  had  come  as  a  sup- 
pliant, that  in  some  way  his  faith  in  him- 
self was  broken.  And  knowing  of  old  the 
obstinate  strength  of  that  faith,  I  shud- 
dered. 

'  In  trouble,  Mr.  Gubbins  ?  ' 

He  appeared  not  to  see  my  outstretched 
hand.  '  I've  had  an  escape  from  hell,'  he 
squeaked.  '  It's  that  damned  monkey-spot, 
Mr.  Saunders.' 

The  mild  expletive,  coming  from  Gubbins, 
astonished  me  no  less  than  his  statement.  I 
asked  him  to  sit  down  and  tell  me  all  about  it, 
but  he  remained  standing  and  his  fingers 
twitched  so  violently  that  presently  his  cap  fell 
to  the  ground  unheeded.  *  It  nearly  got  me, 
sir,  that  monkey-spot.'  A  local  expression,  no 
doubt  ;  but  what  did  it  mean  ?  Gubbins 
saw  at  last  that  I  didn't  understand  him.  *  That 


THE    MOLE  85 

monkey-spot  on  her  chin.     My  wife's  chin. 
You  must  have  seen  it.' 

Can  you  imagine  two  human  beings,  tied 
by  marriage,  devoting  all  their  emotional  energy 
to  hating  each  other  ?  Perhaps  not  ;  but  that 
is,  as  near  as  I  can  tell  it  to  you,  the  truth 
about  the  Gubbinses.  Twenty  years  ago  she 
was  an  unremarkable  woman,  and  he  no  doubt 
a  very  ordinary  youth.  Mere  propinquity,  I 
imagine,  threw  them  at  each  other.  He,  with 
little  or  nothing  of  the  genuine  affection  that 
might  have  excused  the  act,  took  advantage 
of  her,  as  the  phrase  is.  Sin  number  one,  the 
first  link  in  the  chain  that  was  to  bind  him, 
the  first  grievance  for  her  to  cherish  in  her 
ungenerous  heart.  They  were  married  three 
months  before  the  birth  of  the  child.  It  died 
within  an  hour.  She  chose  to  see  in  this  event 
the  punishment  of  the  sin  into  which  he,  as 
she  contended,  had  betrayed  her.  From  that 
moment  Gubbins  was  her  thrall  :  not  by  virtue 
of  love,  or  the  legal  tie,  but  by  virtue  of  the 
hideous  moral  ascendancy  that  the  woman  had 
been  cunning  enough,  and  pitiless  enough,  to 
establish  over  him.  Carefully  she  kept  alive 
the  memory  of  his  offence.  It  was  a  whip 
ready  to  her  hand.  And  when  seeking  for 
distraction  from  his  domestic  misery  he  turned 
to  that  intricate  game  of  guesswork  which  was 


86  THEMOLE 

for  him  religion,  what  he  learned  there  of  the 
significance  of  sin  only  served  to  increase  his 
wretchedness. 

He  was  evidently  a  man  weak  both  in  spirit 
and  intelligence,  or  he  would  have  realized  at 
once  that  he  was  no  more  guilty  than  she  was. 
But  once  she  had  succeeded  in  imposing  her 
view  upon  him  he  could  not  shake  it  off.  It 
remained,  to  poison  his  self-respect.  Side  by 
side  with  his  conviction  of  unworthiness  there 
grew  up  a  hatred  of  the  woman  he  was  sup- 
posed to  have  wronged.  And,  being  itself 
sinful,  this  very  hatred  provided  a  further 
occasion  for  remorse.  It  was  a  race  between 
loathing  and  repentance,  and  loathing  won. 
Never  a  personable  woman,  Mrs.  Gubbins 
became  daily  more  repellent,  until  at  last  the 
wretched  husband  found  her  mere  presence  a 
discomfort,  like  an  ill-fitting  shoe  or  a  bad  smell. 
In  particular,  he  detested — as  well  he  might — 
that  mole  on  her  chin  with  its  three  feline  hairs. 
And  she,  fiendishly  acute,  found  it  all  out. 
She  caught  his  sidelong  glances  of  distaste, 
and  pondered  them  long  ;  and  that  distaste 
became  another  weapon  to  her  hand.  She 
accused  him  of  harbouring  cruel  thoughts  ; 
taunted  him  with  first  robbing  her  of  youth 
and  then  despising  her  for  lacking  it  ;  flung 
out  wild  and  baseless  charges  of  infidelity.  To 


THEMOLE  87 

propitiate  her  he  made  the  most  fantastic  con- 
cessions :  allowed  her  to  turn  him  out  of  the 
shop,  and  consented  to  do  all  the  housework 
in  her  stead.  It  became  patent  to  the  world 
that  she  was  master. 

You'll  ask  why  he  was  fool  enough  to  put 
up  with  this  treatment  ?  But,  given  his  weak- 
ness, the  explanation  is  credible  enough.  She 
attacked  him  at  his  most  vulnerable  point,  his 
conscience.  Religion,  as  he  conceived  it, 
taught  him  to  submit  to  circumstances,  not  to 
master  them.  In  his  darkest  hour  he  could 
still  kneel  at  his  bedside  and  say,  '  Thy  will, 
not  mine,  be  done.'  And  he  really  believed 
for  a  while  that  God's  will  and  Mrs.  Gubbins's 
were  in  mystical  accord,  that  she,  in  fine,  was 
the  rod  with  which,  for  his  own  soul's  good, 
heaven  was  scourging  him.  To  aid  this 
grotesque  delusion  there  was  the  spectacle  of 
her  formal  piety.  For  she  was  a  prayerful 
woman,  scrupulous  in  her  speech,  and  of 
unquestioned  honesty  in  her  commercial  trans- 
actions. 

If  only  he  could  have  cursed  her  and  stood 
by  his  words,  she  might  have  mended.  But 
he,  who  believed  he  had  unravelled  the  ultimate 
secrets  of  destiny,  dared  not  pit  his  moral 
judgment  against  hers.  He  was  ever  ready 
to  sit  on  the  stool  of  repentance.  A  day  came 


88  THE    MOLE 

when  hatred  rose  to  a  frenzy  in  him.  He  cut 
short  her  complaints  with  an  oath,  poured  out 
the  gall  of  his  heart  upon  her.  She  seemed 
quelled,  and  in  his  triumph  he  added  a  taunt, 
banal  and  indeed  puerile  :  '  You  whiskered 
old  cat  ! '  It  was  a  fatal  mistake.  She  stared 
at  him  mutely  for  a  moment,  no  doubt  in  sheer 
astonishment.  Then  her  eyes  narrowed  and 
something  like  a  smile  twisted  her  lips.  '  Cat 
and  mouse,'  she  remarked  coldly.  And — call 
the  man  a  fool,  if  you  like — that  reply  terrified 
Gubbins  as  nothing  else  could  have  done. 

He  had  betrayed  himself  once  more  into  the 
hands  of  the  enemy.  He  had  provided  her 
with  a  new  and  a  bitter  grievance.  Worst  of 
all,  she  knew  his  secret,  knew  that  his  loathing 
centred  on  that  monkey-spot  of  hers,  as  he 
called  it.  From  that  moment  I  imagine  her 
cherishing  that  mole  with  the  solicitude  that 
Samson,  had  he  been  a  wiser  man,  would  have 
lavished  upon  his  hair.  It  was  the  source  and 
the  instrument  of  her  power.  So  far  as  I 
understood  Gubbins,  it  was  as  much  nausea 
as  hatred  that  the  thing  inspired  in  him. 
His  soul  sickened  at  the  sight  of  it.  It 
became  a  poison,  a  torture.  All  this  she 
knew  and  exulted  in  ...  Curious  that  an 
aesthetic  sense,  together  with  a  weak  stomach, 
should  suffice  to  work  a  man's  downfall. 


THE    MOLE  89 

And  so  I  come  back  to  that  night  of  fear 
the  events  of  which  drove  Gubbins,  twenty 
hours  later  but  still  electric  with  terror,  to  the 
refuge  of  my  study. 


Saunders  paused  to  relight  his  pipe.  One 
disconcerting  thing  about  the  affair,  he  resumed 
after  a  while,  is  that  in  Gubbins's  account  of 
his  wife  I  can  discover  no  human  qualities  at 
all.  I  fancy  he  himself  had  begun  to  regard 
her  as  an  agent,  not  of  God  this  time,  but  of 
the  devil.  Characteristic  of  him  to  jump  from 
one  pole  to  the  other.  And  that  theological 
fantasia,  his  imagination,  may  have  coloured 
everything.  That  is  as  it  may  be.  I  can  only 
tell  you  what  he  told  me. 

You  know  how  quickly  some  noxious  weed 
will  overrun  a  flower-bed.  Well,  something 
of  the  kind  happened  in  the  ill-disciplined  mind 
of  Gubbins.  He  was  pitifully  susceptible  to 
suggestion.  An  idle  fancy  presented  itself  to 
him  :  '  Many  a  woman  has  been  murdered 
for  less  than  that  monkey-spot.'  And  the 
fancy  became  a  fear  which  walked  with  him 
night  and  day,  a  fear  lest  he  should  be  betrayed 
by  sheer  force  of  suggestion  into  murdering 
his  wife.  You  realize  what  that  would  mean  ; 


90  THEMOLE 

it  would  mean  damnation  for  his  soul,  or  so  he 
believed.  The  gallows  had  but  few  terrors 
for  him.  I  think  he  would  have  welcomed 
death,  could  he  have  been  sure  of  his  salvation 
hereafter. 

The  seed  was  sown.  The  idea  took  root. 
And  the  more  passionately  he  struggled  against 
it,  the  more  persistently  his  imagination  envis- 
aged the  crime.  At  last  one  night,  after  a 
hundred  sleepless  hours,  he  reached  the  end  of 
his  tether. 

He  jumped  noiselessly  out  of  bed.  Moon- 
light flooded  the  room,  imparting  a  ghastly 
pallor  to  the  face  of  the  supine  Mrs.  Gubbins. 
In  sleep  she  had  something  of  the  chill  dignity 
of  a  corpse  lying  in  state.  The  thin  lips  curled 
back  a  little  on  one  side  of  the  mouth,  and  in 
the  gap  gleamed  a  gold-crowned  tooth,  a  tiny 
yellow  fang.  On  the  point  of  her  chin  was 
that  at  which  the  wretched  man  tried  not  to 
look  :  itself  not  very  offensive,  but  rendered 
hideous  by  the  three  black  jealously-guarded 
hairs  depending  from  it.  Gubbins  swears 
that  as  he  stood  staring  at  his  wife's  face  those 
hairs  were  moving  to  and  fro  like  the  long  legs 
of  a  spider,  or  the  antennae  of  an  insect  seeking 
prey. 

Having  gazed  long,  he  forced  his  fascinated 
eyes  away,  and  padded  across  the  room.  The 


THEMOLE  91 

door  clicked,  in  spite  of  him,  as  he  opened  it. 
He  experienced  all  the  alarms  of  a  guilty  man. 
Yet  his  intention  was  innocent  enough  :  it  was 
even,  in  its  grotesque  fashion,  comical.  He 
had  determined  to  shear  this  female  Samson 
of  her  power  by  cutting  off  those  three 
hairs. 

But  when  he  returned  to  the  bedside,  and 
stood  again  by  the  sleeping  body  of  his  wife, 
he  was  overcome  by  nausea.  Distaste  for  the 
task  paralysed  his  will.  He  felt  as  a  sensitive 
man  would  feel  if  he  were  forced  to  crush  a 
beetle  with  his  naked  finger.  As  an  excuse 
for  delay  he  began  examining  the  instrument 
in  his  hand,  which  was  a  perfectly  ordinary 
pair  of  household  scissors  having,  as  all  scissors 
have,  one  sharp  end  and  one  blunted.  The 
sharp  end  interested  him  most.  He  scrutin- 
ized its  point  and  pressed  it  against  the  ball 
of  his  thumb  ;  and  the  thought  flashed  to  him, 
as  though  the  devil  himself  had  whispered  it  : 
*  This  is  sharp  enough — one  thrust  under  the 
left  ear.'  He  shuddered,  recoiled  from  the 
idea,  and  burned  with  shame  and  fear  for  hav- 
ing ever  had  it.  And,  while  still  suffocating 
with  the  sense  of  his  own  guiltiness,  there 
crept  into  his  consciousness  the  nightmare 
conviction  that  he  was  being  watched.  He 
could  not  see  his  wife,  his  gaze  being  fixed  on 


$a  THE    MOLE 

the  scissors,  but  he  knew  that  she  had  opened 
her  eyes. 

Gubbins  couldn't  explain  to  me  the  horror 
of  that  moment.  He  merely  bowed  his  head 
on  my  mantelpiece  and  closed  his  eyes  as  if 
to  shut  out  an  evil  vision.  For  when,  after 
an  age  of  immobility  and  silence,  he  forced 
himself  to  look  at  the  face  on  the  bed,  he  saw 
the  cruel  lips  curled  in  a  smile  of  final  triumph  ; 
and  even  the  opaque  eyes  seemed  for  once  to 
shine.  And  what,  for  Gubbins,  gave  the  last 
turn  to  the  screw  of  terror  was  that  the  woman 
was  not  looking  at  him  at  all.  Her  gaze,  full 
of  evil  beatitude,  was  fixed  on  the  ceiling.  For 
several  minutes,  minutes  that  throbbed  with 
his  agony,  she  neither  moved  nor  spoke  ;  and 
at  last,  very  slowly,  she  moved  a  little  higher 
on  to  the  pillow  and,  still  smiling  insanely, 
bared  her  throat  for  him  to  strike.  Gubbins 
was  convinced  that  she  ardently  desired  him 
to  stain  his  soul  with  her  blood. 

Well,  as  you  know,  he  didn't  murder  her  : 
not  that  time,  at  any  rate.  He  escaped,  as  he 
said,  from  hell.  But  I  think  I  would  as  soon 
go  to  hell  as  have  to  live  through  those  last 
fifteen  months  of  his.  For  now  she  had  com- 
pleted his  enslavement  ;  now  she  had  got  his 
miserable  little  soul  between  her  finger  and 
thumb.  Added  to  all  her  old  grievances,  those 


THE    MOLE  93 

daggers  with  which  to  stab  at  his  conscience, 
she  had  another  and  a  more  sensational  one  : 
this  terrible  sin,  this  attempt  upon  her  life. 
Spiritual  blackmail  prolonged  for  twenty  years. 
No  wonder  he  set  fire  to  the  place. 


A     SENSITIVE     MAN 


A    SENSITIVE     MAN 

THE  sight  of  Elsie's  drawn  face,  that 
pallid  mask  of  desolation,  moved  Wy- 
vern  to  a  self-pity  that  savoured  exquisitely 
on  the  tongue.  To  watch  suffering  and  to 
be  unable  to  relieve  it  was  a  cruel  experience. 
He  hardly  dared  to  conjecture  how  much  she 
had  suffered  during  the  last  few  days  of  sus- 
pense while  he,  the  only  man  in  the  world  for 
her,  had  been  trying  to  make  up  his  mind 
on  a  matter  affecting  the  destinies  of  three 
persons.  He  could  not  dislike  Elsie  :  she 
had  a  certain  fragile  winsomeness  and  she 
was  still,  though  her  first  bloom  was  gone, 
pathetically  young.  Everything  she  said  to- 
night did  but  strengthen  his  conviction  of  her 
intellectual  immaturity.  Between  his  mind 
and  hers  there  was  a  great  gulf  fixed.  Now 
Marion — Marion  was  so  different.  That  did 
not  mean  that  he  had  no  pity  left  for  Elsie. 
Not  at  all.  His  heart  was  wrung  for  the  one 
no  less  than  for  the  other.  That  was  xhis 
tragedy  :  he  had  a  threefold  burden.  From 

8.E.  97  B 


98  A    SENSITIVE    MAN 

that  point  of  view  he  had  to  admit  himself  the 
most  luckless  of  the  three. 

4  I  know  my  little  wife  will  understand. 
Her  Jim  has  been  quite  frank  with  her.' 

Elsie  leaned  forward,  chin  in  hands,  staring 
fixedly  at  distance.  Only  her  extreme  pallor 
showed  her  to  be  suffering.  For  the  rest, 
her  brow  was  knitted  as  though  she  concen- 
trated all  her  power  upon  some  problem  that 
as  yet  baffled  her. 

'  Yes,  Jim,  I  understand.  I  understand 
that  you're  so  much  more  sensitive  than  other 
men,  and  can't  resist  beauty.  Your  gift  carries 
penalties  with  it,  and  acute  susceptibility  is 
one  of  them.  But  .  .  .' 

He  glowed  in  appreciation  of  her.  She 
was  really  unique.  *  Only  one  woman  in  a 
thousand  could  see  that,'  he  said  warmly. 
'  And  my  little  wife  is  that  one.  She  is  the 
dearest  .  .  .' 

Elsie  winced.  '  I  was  going  to  say  there's 
something  I  can't  understand.  I  always 
thought  you  were  the  soul  of  honour,  and  you 
were  once.  Yet  you  were  going  away  from 
me  without  a  word  of  explanation.' 

Sorrow  looked  out  at  her  from  his  eloquent 
brown  eyes.  '  My  dear  Elsie,  don't  disap- 
point me.  You've  always  been  so  understand- 
ing and  helpful.  How  many  men  would  have 


A    SENSITIVE    MAN  99 

confided  to  their  wives  all  that  I  have  confided 
to  you  about  my  love  for  Marion  ?  ' 

*  But,  Jim  !  '  She  frowned  again,  struggling 
to  believe  the  best  of  him.  '  Jim,  you  didn't 
tell  me  anything  until  other  people  had  begun 
to  make  scandal.'  The  idea  hardened  her. 
'  I  don't  believe  you'd  ever  have  told  me. 
You  would  just  have  gone  on  deceiving  us 
both.' 

A  gesture  of  impatience,  and  that  was  all. 
He  did  not  give  way  to  anger.  '  My  dear,  I 
realize  how  hard  it  is  for  you  to  listen  to  the 
voice  of  reason  in  a  crisis  like  this,  but  you 
will  try,  won't  you  ?  It  all  began  in  the  most 
innocent,  the  most  human  way.  I  was  over- 
whelmed by  my  compassion  for  the  poor 
child — virtually  imprisoned,  as  she  is,  with  a 
husband  she  can't  even  respect,  let  alone  love. 
And  then  the  affection  ripened.  She  stimu- 
lates me  wonderfully.  She  is  an  inspiration, 
just  the  inspiration  that  I  need.  Our  minds 
are  so  beautifully  attuned.' 

And  still  Elsie  was  not  satisfied.  '  You 
know  I  don't  grudge  you  anything,  Jim.  It's 
the  deceit  that  worries  me.  She  ought  to 
know  about  me.  You  ought  not  to  take  her 
under  false  pretences.  It's  not  like  you, 
Jim,  to  be  content  with  a  vulgar  intrigue.' 

'  There   is   nothing   vulgar   in   love.'     He 


ioo  A    SENSITIVE     MAN 

softened  the  rebuke  by  taking  her  hand,  which 
she  instantly  withdrew.  '  And  nothing  guilty,' 
he  added,  with  a  note  of  sternness. 

Her  laugh  was  of  a  kind  that  could  not  but 
shock  him.  '  How  clever  you  are  at  putting 
me  in  the  wrong  ! '  she  remarked,  when  her 
bitter  mirth  had  subsided.  '  But  I'm  not 
wrong.'  Emotion  induced  in  her  a  vitality 
that  made  him  almost  admire  her.  '  I'm  not 
sticking  up  for  Respectability  or  any  of  the 
seven  deadly  virtues,  as  you  call  them.  You 
dethroned  these  gods  for  me  long  ago.  But 
there  is  something  I  believe  in.  I  do  believe 
in  honour,  and  I  hate  a  liar  .  .  .  You've 
deceived  her  as  well  as  me.' 

Wyvern  sighed.  It  was  sometimes  hard 
to  be  patient  with  women.  '  Elsie,  why  do 
you  say  things  which  you  know  to  be  untrue  ?  ' 
His  tone  was  still  gentle. 

'  Well,  isn't  it  true  ? '  she  retorted.  '  Have 
you  told  her  about  me  ?  Have  you  explained 
that  a  man  so  many-sided  as  yourself  needs  the 
love  of  more  than  one  woman  ?  Have  you 
told  her  that  the  human  heart  is  capable 
of  almost  infinite  expansion  ?  You  know  you 
haven't.' 

'  I  respect  you  too  much,'  he  replied,  cold 
with  a  new  dignity,  *  and  I  respect  myself 
too  much  ever  to  discuss  you  with  another 


A    SENSITIVE     MAN  101 

woman.  I  thought  you  understood  me  better, 
Elsie.' 

The  fire  in  her  seemed  to  die  down.  Vitality 
vanished,  leaving  her  limp  and  listless.  She 
rose,  a  frail  slip  of  a  girl  with  colourless  skin 
and  a  halo  of  light  brown  hair  like  a  dim  mist 
— items  so  negligible  compared  with  the  lilies 
and  roses  of  Marion's  robuster  person,  the 
flaming  glory  of  her  hair,  the  seductiveness 
of  her  brimming  youth.  Wyvern  could  not 
resist  making  a  mental  comparison  even  in 
this  moment.  He  hated  himself  for  making 
it,  and  he  recorded  it  to  his  credit  that  he 
hated  himself.  It  was  so  like  him  to  be 
merciless  to  his  own  faults.  He  watched 
Elsie  narrowly,  from  behind  a  curtain  of 
cigarette  smoke. 

*  Very  well,  Jim.  I  shan't  stand  in  your 
way  ;  you  know  that.  To-morrow  I'll  go 
away  somewhere.  Good  night.' 

He  was  pained  and  yet  elated.  She  would 
go  away  to-morrow.  Fortunately  she  had 
plenty  of  friends  and,  thank  heaven,  he  had 
long  ago  settled  an  adequate  income  upon  her. 
He  had  nothing  to  reproach  himself  with. 
She  would  go  away  to-morrow.  They  would 
meet  again — oh,  frequently.  They  would 
always  be  friends.  He  felt  more  warmly 
towards  her  than  he  had  done  for  months,  and 


102  A    SENSITIVE    MAN 

yet  he  was  dissatisfied.  The  victory  he  had 
won  didn't  seem  so  good  to  him  as  it  had 
seemed  in  prospect.  He  shrank  from  the 
suspicion  that  he  had,  in  some  inexplicable 
way,  sunk  in  her  esteem.  The  idea  was 
unbearable. 

'  We'll  discuss  that  another  time.  You're 
not  angry,  darling  ? '  he  said.  '  You  see  how 
inevitable  it  all  is  ?  ' 

With  her  hand  on  the  door  knob  she  turned 
to  say  :  '  Yes,  Jim.  I'm  not  blaming  you.' 
And  she  went  out,  closing  the  door  softly 
behind  her. 

So  that  was  all  right.  He  smoked  his 
cigarette  out  in  something  like  peace  of  mind. 
Not  perfect  peace,  however  ;  the  thought  of 
losing  something — even  something  for  which 
he  didn't  care — was  distasteful.  Old  associ- 
ations would  cling.  It  was  an  insufferable 
social  order  that  pressed  this  cruel  alternative 
on  a  sensitive  man,  ordaining  that  he  must 
release  one  woman  before  he  could  take  another. 
*  It's  all  so  niggardly,  niggardly  !  '  said  Wyvern, 
as  he  stepped  out  into  the  sweetness  of  that 
June  evening.  He  felt  the  need,  as  he  had 
never  felt  it  before,  of  Nature's  soothing  touch, 
her  sunset's  balm  for  his  eyes,  the  caress  of  her 
delicate  breezes  on  his  brow. 

For  the  sake  of  the  walk  he  set  out  in  the 


A    SENSITIVE     MAN  103 

direction  of  his  studio,  a  walk  that  would  take 
him  away  from  suburban  houses  into  little 
lanes  surrounded  by  open  fields.  There  one 
could  get  close  to  Nature  and  to  Beauty.  He 
had  often  been  grateful  to  his  own  foresight 
for  having  provided  him  with  a  studio  not 
only  separate  from  his  residence  but  distant 
from  it  by  many  miles.  Only  in  solitude,  he 
murmured  to  himself,  can  the  human  spirit 
grow  to  its  full  stature  ;  and  he  knew  that  the 
rather  recondite  art  whereby  he  supplemented, 
or  failed  to  supplement,  his  substantial  private 
income  could  never  have  flourished  in  the 
vicinity  of  Elsie,  who  was,  when  all  was 
said,  '  a  dear  little  woman,  but  no  artist.*  In 
his  studio  he  could  work  undistracted  ;  and 
once  or  twice,  when  the  tide  of  his  inspiration 
had  been  at  the  full,  he  had  stayed  there  for 
several  days,  sleeping  at  nights  upon  a  little 
canvas  folding-bed.  There  was  something 
Spartan  about  the  practice  that  appealed  to 
him.  Elsie  exhibited  a  suitable  distress  at 
these  absences,  but  she  encouraged  his  painting 
and  applauded  the  results,  though  without 
revealing  any  real  critical  understanding  of 
them.  James  Wyvern  professed  allegiance  to 
no  school,  and  to  that  fact  attributed  his  failure 
to  obtain  recognition.  He  dealt  too  exclusively 
in  subtleties  to  be  able  to  please  the  multitude, 


104  A    SENSITIVE     MAN 

even  the  multitude  of  art-critics.  It  was  his 
declared  purpose  to  demonstrate  by  his  work 
a  familiar  French  aphorism  :  La  verite  consiste 
dans  les  nuances.  '  The  Boot  Cupboard  '  and 
an  unnamed  picture  representing  amethyst-blue 
houses  were  perhaps  his  most  successful  pro- 
ductions. *  Representation,  no.  Symbolism, 
if  you  like.  Representation  is  an  artistic  vice.' 
Yet  he  had  his  lapses  and  was  deliciously 
conscious  of  them.  *  My  dear,  I  am  daring. 
I  am  taking  the  gravest  risk.  What  do  you 
think — a  ploughed  field  !  Positively  a  ploughed 
field  !  The  danger  is  simply  colossal.'  To 
his  artist-friends  he  was  in  the  habit  of  saying  : 
*  Fundamentally,  I  suppose,  I'm  a  novelist.' 
Just  as,  three  years  before,  during  his  literary 
period,  he  had  fended  off  praise  by  murmuring  : 
'  I'm  happiest,  after  all,  with  my  palette  and 
brush  .  .  .  Oh,  that  little  box  of  paints  !  ' 

Striding  along  between  fragrant  hedges,  he 
luxuriated  in  the  joy  of  the  open  air  and  in  his 
new  sense  of  freedom.  Everything  had  been 
explained  to  Elsie,  and  she  had  taken  it,  on  the 
whole,  beautifully.  He  was  really  grateful  to 
Elsie.  And  now  he  was  a  free  man.  '  Free- 
dom, the  deep  breath  ! '  he  quoted  in  rapture. 
He  was  free  now  to  rescue  Marion,  his  impri- 
soned princess,  from  her  dungeon  of  despair. 
He  would  take  her  away,  far  away.  Away 


A     SENSITIVE     MAN  105 

from  censorious  England  to  the  magic  air 
and  blue  skies  of  Italy,  where  life  should 
become  an  exquisite  indolent  dream.  '  Ah 
yes,'  he  said.  *  Como  !  Como  shall  be  the 
mise-en-scene.1 

Dreaming  of  Como,  he  entered  the  studio. 

4  What  the  devil ! '  There  she  was, 

Marion  herself,  in  his  wicker-chair.  '  My 
darling,  you  \  '  He  was  amazed  to  find  her 
there,  and  amazed  by  the  unearthly  beauty  of 
her.  She  rose  to  meet  him,  excited  fear 
shining  in  her  large  eyes. 

'  Hullo,  Jimmy  !  You  won't  be  glad  to 
see  me.'  How  the  deuce  did  she  know  that  ? 
'  John  has  found  out  about  us.  He  made  a 
scene.  He's  dangerous.  I've  fled  the  house.' 

'  Marion,  what  a  wonderful  girl  you  are  ! 
What  a  study  in  contrast — your  fragrant 
English  girlhood,  and  your  exotic  chintz 
dress  !  '  He  enfolded  her  in  arms  of  solicitude. 
'  My  dear,  tell  me  it  all.' 

*  That's  all.  People  have  been  talking  to 
him.  He  threatened  me.  So  I  came  here.' 

He  could  see  her  nostrils  dilate  and  her 
breasts  flutter  in  the  intoxication  of  the  danger. 
1  Like  netted  fish  they  leap,'  he  quoted  to  him- 
self. Aloud  he  murmured  :  '  Darling,  you 
came  here.  Yes,  of  course.  But  how  .  .  .' 


io6  A    SENSITIVE     MAN 

'  Oh,  I  found  out  where  it  was  and  just 
came.  There  was  a  woman  here ' 

He  was  startled.  *  A  woman  ?  .  .  .  Oh, 
Mrs.  Phillips,  perhaps,  the  woman  who  cleans 
up.' 

'  Yes.  I  told  her  I  was  a  friend  of  your 
wife's,  and  she  let  me  stay.  Cheek,  wasn't 
it  !  Invented  a  wife  for  you.  Just  bluff,  but 
it  came  off.  .  .  .  Do  give  me  a  cigarette.' 

But  this  would  never  do.  Here  they  were 
alone  together,  in  a  most  compromising  situa- 
tion, while  her  husband — positively  a  dangerous 
fellow — raged  round  the  countryside  looking  for 

her,  perhaps  with  a  pistol.  At  any  moment 

*  But,  my  darling  girl,  is  it  wise  ?  ' 

With  no  sign  of  having  heard  the  question, 
she  rested  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  '  Dar- 
ling Jimmy,  what  shall  I  do  ? ' 

It  was  surely  the  most  beautiful  moment  of 
his  life.  He  was  touched  almost  to  tears  by 
her  perfect  trust  in  him.  All  her  dewy  fresh- 
ness, all  her  passionate  beauty,  all  her  vital 
young  womanhood,  was  his  for  the  taking.  He 
had  but  to  say  :  '  Come  with  me  now  .  .  . 
Como  ! '  and  she  would  come.  But  was  it 
wise  to  act  so  hastily  ?  He  plunged  into  a 
delirium  of  pleasurable  emotion  only  to  emerge 
with  that  question  in  his  mind.  With  his  lips 
clinging  to  hers  he  asked  it.  Was  it  wise  ? 


A    SENSITIVE    MAN  107 

They  would  go  away  sooner  or  later  :  that 
was  inevitable  ;  but  to  go  now,  would  it  not 
be  precipitate  ?  To  take  a  woman  from  her 
husband  was  a  serious  matter,  involving 
unexampled  responsibility.  He  would  be 
bound  to  her  more  surely  than  by  any  legal 
marriage.  And  the  scandal,  the  hateful  pub- 
licity, the  dragging  of  one's  name  through  the 
divorce  courts — it  was  all  so  intolerable  to  a 
sensitive  man.  He  would  incur  the  enmity 
of  many  people,  and  he  would  lose  Elsie. 
Elsie  would  divorce  him,  would  perhaps  forget 
him  and  re-marry  .  .  . 

He  released  Marion  from  that  mad  em- 
brace. 

'  What  am  I  to  do,  darling  ?  '  she  repeated. 

'  Let  me  think,  dear,'  he  said,  stroking  his 
troubled  brow.  '  Let  me  think.  Above  all 
we  must  listen  to  the  voice  of  reason.  So 
much  depends  on  this.  Don't  you  think  it 
would  be  best  for  you  to  go  back  ?  Only  for 
a  while,  of  course.' 

She  stared  as  though  he  had  spoken  in  an 
unknown  tongue.  '  Go  back  ?  Go  back  to 
John  ? ' 

'  Only  for  a  few  weeks,  darling,  until  I  can 
see  daylight,  and  make  all  arrangements.' 

She  stepped  back  from  him  a  few  paces,  as 
if  to  survey  him  the  better.  Her  eyes  had 


io8  A    SENSITIVE    MAN 

the  surprised  and  stricken   look  of  a   child 
unaccountably  hurt. 

'  I  don't  think  I  understand.  Are  you 
telling  me  to  go  back  to  my  husband  ?  Tou, 
Sire  you  telling  me  that  ?  * 

*  My  darling  girl,  don't  you  see  .  .  .' 

'  Do  you  understand  what  that  means  ?  Go 
back  to  my  husband  who,  when  I  last  saw 
him,  was  raging  like  a  beast.  Go  back  to 
him  and,  if  he  doesn't  kill  me,  be  his  woman.' 

*  Dear  heart,  for  a  few  weeks  only.' 

She  trembled  violently  for  a  moment,  and 
then  became  rigid  with  scorn.  '  I  agree  with 
you  perfectly.  I  had  better  go.' 

The  door  slammed  behind  her  before  Wyvern 
recovered  his  wits.  He  ran  forward  a  few 
steps  as  if  to  pursue  her  .  .  .  and  stopped. 
'  My  God,  I  shall  never  see  her  again  !  '  He 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  *  Perfect  har- 
mony, complete  understanding,  all  lost.  That 
was  the  moment,  the  moment  of  my  life,  and 
I  let  it  pass.  Como  ...  I  shall  never  bear 
to  look  on  Como  again.'  Painful  as  his 
sensations  were,  they  were  undeniably  interest- 
ing. If  ever  he  wrote  a  novel  he  would  make 
that  incident  the  pivot  of  the  plot,  the  crisis, 
the  turning-point.  *  There  is  a  tide  in  the 
affairs  of  men  .  .  .  By  Jove  there  is  1 '  Why 
had  he  not  taken  it  at  the  flood  ?  It  was  all 


A     SENSITIVE     MAN  109 

too  sudden — no  arrangements  made,  and  a 
picture  half-finished.  Marion — he  must  forget 
Marion.  Perhaps  he  had  been  mistaken  in 
her.  Her  scorn  for  him  had  been  so  unde- 
served ;  he  writhed  at  the  recollection  of 
it.  He  yearned  now  for  some  haven  of  refuge. 
Bruised  and  broken  by  life,  his  heart  cried  out 
for  comfort.  Ah,  Elsie — she  did  not  scorn 
him.  A  stab  of  fear  lest  the  impossible  had 
happened,  lest  he  had  alienated  his  wife's  love, 
sent  him  flying  out  of  the  studio  and  on  the 
road  for  home.  Forsaken  by  both  women,  he 
would  be  homeless  indeed,  and  with  no  balm 
for  his  wounds.  What  if  it  were  his  fate  to 
be  misunderstood  again  ?  He  began  rehears- 
ing the  speeches  he  would  make  to  Elsie.  He 
conjured  up  the  scene  :  Elsie  in  her  night- 
dress, sitting  up  in  the  rumpled  bed,  just  dis- 
turbed out  of  sleep.  Perhaps  she  would  be  a 
little  cruel  at  first  :  women  were  like  that. 
'  If  my  little  wife  is  not  kind  to  me  now  I 
shall  go  mad  with  the  pain  of  it  all.'  At  that 
she  would  relent,  and  weep  upon  his  breast. 
And  she  would  love  him  more  dearly  than  ever 
for  having  been  so  near  to  losing  him. 


MISS     LETTICE 


MISS    LETTIGE 

NEEDING  some  stakes  for  my  new  fruit 
trees,  I  called  on  Saunders,  who  knows 
everything,  to  ask  him  where  they  could  be 
obtained.  Saunders  is  something  more  than 
a  rector  :  he  is  a  shepherd  of  souls.  He  has 
an  extraordinary  capacity  for  listening,  and 
listening,  he  tells  me  (without  any  irony),  is 
the  most  important  of  his  duties — far  more 
important  than  preaching  church  doctrine  Sun- 
day by  Sunday.  This  is  fortunate,  for  in  my 
belief  Saunders's  orthodoxy  would  not  survive 
a  very  minute  scrutiny.  The  villagers  go  to 
him  with  their  most  secret  troubles,  their 
most  lurid  sins,  and  come  away  with  hearts 
eased,  comforted  by  a  platitude  or  two  or  by 
wordless  sympathy.  His  mind  must  be  quite 
a  filing-cabinet  of  what  are  called  human 
documents.  With  so  much  silent  listening  to 
do,  perhaps  he  finds  me  as  useful  as  I  find  him 
interesting  ;  for  I  am  always  willing,  when 
he  is  with  me,  to  keep  my  ears  open  and  my 
mouth  shut.  He  is  a  good  talker  but  not  a 

8.E.  113  I 


ii4  MISS    LETTICE 

garrulous  one  :  it  is  the  things  he  leaves  unsaid, 
or  half-unsaid,  that  interest  me  most  in  his 
discourse. 

As  I  had  expected,  he  put  me  at  once  in  the 
way  of  getting  my  stakes.  '  Bowers,  of  Yew 
Tree  Farm,  is  the  best  man.  He's  a  good 
fellow,  Bowers.  For  your  own  soul's  sake 
you'll  have  to  keep  an  eye  on  his  charges  : 
they're  generally  much  too  low.  Yew  Tree 
Farm — you  know  the  place  ?  It's  not  really  a 
farm  at  all  :  it's  a  ramshackle  wooden  house 
standing  by  the  side  of  a  timber-yard.  Near 
poor  Miss  Lettice's  cottage.' 

'  Why  do  you  call  her  poor  ? '  I  asked. 
For  Saunders  was  not  in  the  habit  of  using  that 
epithet  without  cause. 

'  Ah,  haven't  you  heard  ?  She  has  been 
taken  away,  you  know.  You  spend  too  much 
time  among  those  books  of  yours,  my  friend. 
Why,  it  happened  over  a  week  ago.  Pitiful 
affair.  She  lapsed  suddenly  into  a  kind  of 
grotesque  babyhood.' 

I  can  never  hear  of  such  an  event  without 
shuddering.    *  But  she  wasn't  an  aged  woman  ! ' 
Already   one  spoke  of  her  in  the  past  tense 
as  of  the  dead. 

'  She  was  fifty-eight,'  said  Saunders  ;  and 
though  genuinely  shocked  by  the  disaster  I 
couldn't  help  being  amused  for  a  moment 


MISS     LETTICE  115 

by  the  exactness  of  his  information — it  was  so 
characteristic  of  him  that  he  knew  the  woman's 
age  to  a  year.  '  No,'  he  added,  '  it  wasn't  the 
sort  of  thing  that  should  happen  in  the  ordinary 
course  of  nature.' 

'  She  had  some  shock,'  I  suggested. 

Saunders  nodded.     '  The  most  cruel  shock.' 

'  And  you  no  doubt  were  in  her  confidence,' 
I  insinuated. 

Observing  the  curiosity  that  I  tried  politely 
to  dissemble,  he  looked  at  me  for  one  silent 
moment  and  smiled.  '  There's  no  reason  why 
you  shouldn't  know.  You're  a  discreet  fellow, 
and  if  you  weren't  such  a  misguided  heretic  I 
could  find  it  in  my  heart  to  like  you.  Well, 
the  cause  of  Miss  Lettice's  collapse  was  a 
psychological  phenomenon  that  has  a  very  old- 
fashioned  name.' 

I  waited  for  him  to  go  on. 

'  A  broken  heart,'  said  Saunders.  '  Miss 
Lettice  is  the  victim  of  a  hopeless  passion.' 

'  A  hopeless  passion,'  I  protested,  '  at  fifty- 
eight  !  ' 

Saunders  drew  his  left  hand  from  his  jacket 
pocket  and  with  it  a  pouchful  of  tobacco,  which 
he  tossed  into  my  lap.  '  You're  not  in  a  hurry 
for  ten  minutes  ?  ' 

I  am  never  in  a  hurry  when  Saunders  settles 
down  into  his  chair  with  that  air  of  pensive 


ii6  MISS    LETTIOE 

reminiscence  ;   so,  when  we  had  both  got  our 
pipes  going,  he  told  me  the  story. 


You  are  surprised  (said  Saunders)  at  being 
asked  to  associate  Miss  Lettice  with  the  idea 
of  passion,  requited  or  unrequited.  And,  if 
you  recall  her  small  plump  figure,  and  the  nun- 
like  pallor  of  the  face  that  peered  placidly 
from  under  her  black  bonnet,  you  will  readily 
believe  that  hers  was  no  ordinary  passion.  But 
it  was  passion  :  let  there  be  no  mistake  about 
that  ;  I'm  not  going  to  fob  off  some  remote 
mystical  ecstasy  upon  you  under  that  name. 
It's  hard  enough  to  credit  that  the  heart  of  that 
staid,  quaint,  curtseying  old  spinster  was 
aflame  with  a  hunger  that  ultimately  destroyed 
her,  but  the  evidence  is  overwhelming.  It  is 
twofold,  that  evidence  :  there  is  the  evidence 
of  her  words  and  the  evidence  of  my  own  eyes. 

My  interest  in  Miss  Lettice  was  first  roused 
by  a  disquieting  rumour  that  reached  me,  by  a 
devious  route,  from  a  neighbour's  wife  who 
was  employed  by  Miss  Lettice  to  come  in  and 
do  the  rough  housework  for  her.  According 
to  this  rumour  Miss  Lettice  was,  for  no  stated 
reason,  afraid  of  me.  This  puzzled  me,  as 
well  it  might,  because  at  that  time  I  didn't 


MISS    LETTIOE  117 

even  know  who  she  was  :  if  we  had  met  in  the 
street  I  could  not  have  recognized  her.  But  it 
was  more  than  puzzling  :  it  was  distressing. 
I  knew  that  if  I  were  to  be  of  any  use  to  the 
parish  at  all,  fear  was  the  very  last  emotion 
I  must  inspire.  I  examined  the  few  sermons 
I  had  preached,  for  there,  I  thought,  since  they 
were  the  only  communications  I  had  had  with 
the  lady,  the  solution  of  my  problem  must  lie. 
I  looked  for  unsound  doctrine,  or  for  traces  of 
hell-fire,  or  for  anything  else  that  could  have 
alarmed  a  timid  soul  ;  and  I  found  nothing. 
You  must  remember  that  I  was  new  to  the 
job,  and  totally  without  experience,  and  alto- 
gether too  disposed  to  take  trifles  seriously. 
To-day  I  should  soon  find  a  summary 
method  of  dealing  with  such  a  situation,  but 
at  that  time  it  baffled  me.  I  accepted  it  for 
a  while  as  a  permanent  minor  discomfort. 

I  had  promised  myself  to  make  friends,  if  I 
could,  with  every  member  of  my  congregation, 
and  with  as  many  others  as  I  could  contrive 
to  visit — no  small  undertaking  in  this  wilder- 
ness of  scattered  dwellings.  Miss  Lettice 
had  to  wait  her  turn,  of  course,  but  it  was  a 
point  of  honour  with  me  that  she  should  not 
have  to  wait  beyond  it.  Nervous,  but  also 
curious,  I  knocked  at  her  front  door. 

She  received  me,  rather  sternly,  I  thought, 


n8  MISS    LETTICE 

but  without  discomposure.  I  was  shewn  into 
a  tiny  mottled  room,  which  she  called,  I 
believe,  the  parlour.  It  was  rather  crowded  by 
furniture,  but  the  furniture  itself  was  good  and 
old  and  the  mantelpiece  was  laden  with  less 
than  the  usual  cottage  assortment  of  bric-a- 
brac,  though,  of  course,  there  was  the  inevitable 
lustreware  glittering  on  each  side  of  a  marble 
clock,  and,  equally  inevitable,  a  pair  of  china 
dogs.  The  pink  beflowered  walls  were  hung 
with  very  bad  pictures,  in  the  Marcus  Stone 
tradition,  most  of  them  from  Christmas  annuals  ; 
but  there  was  not  a  photograph  to  be  seen 
anywhere.  I  remembered  having  heard  Miss 
Lettice  described  as  '  a  real  lady  in  reduced 
circumstances,'  and  I  knew  that  she  supple- 
mented a  tiny  inherited  income  by  giving  music 
lessons. 

For  half  an  hour  we  talked  of  indifferent 
things,  and  I  began  to  fear  that  I  should  never 
succeed  in  breaking  through  her  armour  of 
frigid  politeness.  But  in  those  days  I  was  an 
obstinate  young  mule  and  determined  to  get 
at  the  truth  behind  that  rumour.  At  last 
she  gave  me  my  chance. 

'  You  have  been  in  the  parish  three  months, 
have  you  not,  Mr.  Saunders  ? ' 

I  chose  to  regard  the  remark  as  a  challenge. 
'  Three  very  busy  months,'  I  answered,  loading 


MISS    LETTICE  119 

my   words   with  all   the  weight  they  would 
carry. 

'  Too  busy,  I'm  sure,  to  visit  middle-aged 
nobodies,'  she  retorted.  And  then,  taking 
sudden  pity  on  my  youthful  confusion — I 
was  nearly  twenty  years  her  junior — she 
smiled  in  a  way  that  seemed  to  betoken  for- 
giveness. 

It  was  a  smile  almost  maternal,  and  it 
emboldened  me.  '  Miss  Lettice,'  I  said, 
smiling  in  return,  '  why  do  you  dislike  me  ? ' 
Placidly  she  shook  her  head.  *  Then  why  did 
you  dislike  me  ?  Oh,  never  mind  how  I 
know.  Things  soon  get  about  in  a  little 
community  like  ours.' 

She  seemed  startled.  '  What  do  you  know  ? ' 
Her  eyes  narrowed  to  gimlet  points.  The 
abrupt  change  in  her  manner  disconcerted  me. 
'  What  do  you  know  ?  '  she  repeated  defiantly, 
and,  finding  me  silent,  she  flung  another 
question  at  me,  this  time  a  veritable  challenge  : 
4  Do  you  know  about  my  son  ?  ' 

Her  son  !  So  that  was  the  cause  of  all 
the  misunderstanding.  *  Nothing  at  all,'  I 
assured  her.  *  Upon  my  word  this  is  the 
first  I've  heard  of  him.  Did  you  think 

'  Yes,  I  did.  I  thought  you  disapproved 
of  me,  as  your  predecessor  did,  or  maybe 


120  MISS    LETTIOE 

his  wife.  I  thought  you  were  never  going  to 
call.' 

'  But  why,'  I  protested,  '  why  should  I  or 
anyone  presume  to  disapprove  of  you  ? '  And 
I  wondered  what  travesty  of  religion  had  been 
current  in  this  parish  before  my  coming. 

She  looked  unaccountably  severe.  '  I  think 
you  don't  understand.' 

*  I  think  I  do,'  said  I,  with  cheerful  arrogance. 
'  Mr.  Saunders,  I  am  an  unmarried  woman, 

and  I  have  a  son.' 

'  Yes  ? '  I  said,  simulating  polite  interest 
when  in  truth  I  was  burning  with  curiosity. 
But  if  I  hoped  to  win  her  sympathy  by  this 
unconventional  attitude  I  was  to  be  woefully 
disappointed.  '  You  don't  seem  to  realize 
the  gravity  of  what  I  tell  you,'  Miss  Lettice 
rebuked  me.  '  It  is  mistaken  kindness  to 
treat  a  sin  so  lightly.' 

*  I  want  to  be  a  friend  to  the  parish,  not  a 
judge.'     Priggish  remarks  rise  readily  to  the 
lips  of  a  young  man  such  as  I  was  then.     '  Be- 
sides,' I  added,  '  if  your  son  was  a  child  of 
true  love  there  was  no  worse  a  sin  than  indis- 
cretion.' 

But  the  confessed  sinner  would  not  hear  of 
such  wickedness.  '  You,  the  vicar,  to  say  a 
thing  like  that  !  That's  not  the  kind  of 
teaching  we  want  in  this  parish.  Why,  I've 


MISS    LETTICE  121 

done  penance  all  my  life  for  that  indiscretion, 
as  you  dare  to  call  it.  I  forfeited  marriage 
and  sent  my  lover  away.  Not  even  for  the 
child's  sake  would  I  condone  our  sin  by 
marrying.  And  do  you  tell  me  that  all  my 
bitter  repentance  was  unnecessary  ?  ' 

What  could  I  say  ?  It  would  have  been 
cruel  to  convince  her  that  she  had  thrown 
away  her  happiness  in  sheer  waste,  sacrificed 
her  life  on  the  altar  of  a  false  god.  I  hadn't 
the  heart  to  attempt  it,  so  I  fell  back,  I'm  afraid, 
on  Scriptural  quotations,  and  left  it  at  that. 
The  familiar  words  seemed  to  comfort  her  and 
to  reinstate  me  in  her  eyes  as  a  moralist.  None 
the  less  she  was  sufficiently  assured  of  my 
sympathy  to  speak  of  her  love,  and  as  she 
spoke  I  began  to  wonder  whether  after  all  my 
pity  had  not  been  misplaced.  Sin  or  no  sin, 
the  memory  of  her  golden  youth  was  dear  to 
her.  She  was  repentant  enough,  no  doubt, 
when  she  remembered  to  be  ;  but  she  did  not 
live  by  morality  alone.  The  woman  in  her 
still  exulted,  the  woman's  eyes  still  shone, 
in  the  knowledge  that  she  had,  however  long 
ago,  been  found  beautiful.  '  We  were  very 
young,'  she  said,  with  disarming  simplicity, 
'  and  we  loved  each  other  very  much.  He  was 
all  the  world  to  me.'  Her  cheeks  flushed  ; 
her  meagre  bosom  rose  and  fell  tremulously — 


122  MISS    LETTIGE 

and  in  that  moment  I  saw  her  as  she  had  been, 
young,  fresh,  adorable,  alight  with  limitless 
ecstasy,  the  incarnation  of  a  man's  desire.  The 
transfigurement  endured  only  for  a  flash,  and 
flickered  away,  leaving  me  desolated  with  the 
stabbing  poignancy  of  life.  From  that  to  this, 
I  thought,  we  must  all  pass.  To  hide  my 
emotion  I  led  the  talk  back  to  her  son.  '  And 
where  is  he  now  ? '  I  asked.  '  Does  he  often 
come  to  see  you  ?  ' 

She  smiled  wanly.  '  He's  all  I've  got. 
You  see  there's  a  place  set  for  him.  You'll 
take  a  cup  of  tea  with  us  ? ' 

The  lid  of  the  kettle  that  stood  on  the  fire 
was  already  palpitating.  Miss  Lettice  made 
the  tea  and  enclosed  the  pot  in  a  knitted  cosy 
of  green  wool.  For  the  next  few  minutes  we 
exchanged  only  tea-table  talk.  But  after- 
wards, when  I  made  gestures  of  going,  she 
confronted  me  wistfully,  her  eyes  lit  up  once 
again.  But  this  was  a  new  light,  and  one 
more  consonant  with  her  years. 

'  Would  you  like  to  see  his  room  ? '  she  said, 
almost  in  a  whisper. 

I  expressed  eagerness,  and  she  led  me  to  the 
threshold  of  a  room  so  tiny  that  it  made  one 
think  of  a  monastic  cell.  It  was  just  large 
enough  to  contain  a  small  single  bed,  ready  for 
use,  a  wash-stand,  and  a  miniature  dressing- 


MISS    LETTIGE  123 

table.  The  furniture  was  all  of  childish 
dimensions.  In  the  further  corner,  under  the 
window,  stood  a  cricket-bat.  I  glanced  round 
with  the  vague  smile  of  politeness.  '  So  this 
is  Bernard's  room.  A  snug  little  place. 
And  I  see  it's  all  ready  for  his  return.' 

After  a  silence  Miss  Lettice  sighed.  (  He 
would  have  been  eighteen  this  coming  April,' 
she  murmured. 

I  stared  at  her  a  moment  in  stupid  wonder. 
'  He  would  have  been  ...  do  you  mean  .  .  .  ?  ' 

*  He  was  stillborn,'  she  confessed,  and  her 
glance  dropped  before  my  stare.  '  It  was 
silly  not  to  tell  you  at  once.  But  Bernard's 
all  I've  got.  He'd  be  a  fine  big  fellow  by  now.' 

To  avoid  those  glistening  eyes  I  turned 
away,  only  to  encounter  a  sight  but  one  degree 
less  pitiful  :  Bernard's  cricket-bat — symbol  of 
lusty  young  manhood,  white  flannels,  sunlit 
turf — which  no  cricketer's  hand  had  ever 
grasped.  What  could  I  say  or  do  ?  I  was 
angered  as  well  as  touched  by  the  wanton 
sentimentality  of  that  room,  and  having  mur- 
mured words  of  conventional  comfort  I  hurried 
back  to  the  vicarage.  Not  until  many  hours 
had  passed  did  I  succeed  in  hustling  away  my 
mood  of  melancholy  ;  and  as  I  entered  my  own 
bachelor  bedroom  I  shuddered  to  hear,  in 
imagination,  the  Good-night  uttered  by  that 


124  MISSLETTIGE 

fond   impossible   woman    to   the   ghost   with 
whom  she  shared  her  home. 


Saunders  got  out  of  his  chair,  as  though  the 
story  were  finished,  and  stood  with  his  back 
to  the  fire  warming  the  palms  of  his  hands. 
There  was  a  moment's  silence,  which  I  saw  no 
reason  for  breaking,  and  then  he  began  talking 
again.  After  that,  he  said,  Miss  Lettice  and 
I  were  quite  good  friends.  I  became  a  constant 
and  welcome  visitor  at  her  cottage:  constant 
because  her  solitude  was  something  of  a  pain 
to  me,  and  welcome  because  she  knew  that  to 
me  she  could  talk  about  Bernard  to  her  heart's 
content.  And  that,  by  Jove,  was  a  privilege 
she  lost  no  opportunity  of  exercising.  How 
many  times  have  I  piously  lied  to  that  woman 
assuring  her  that  my  interest  in  her  Bernard 
was  insatiable  !  Often,  as  you'll  readily  under- 
stand, I  was  bored  beyond  expression,  though 
I  never  lost  my  sense  of  the  grotesque  pathos  of 
her  life.  But  I  must  be  careful  not  to  let  you 
suppose  that  she  was  a  mere  monomaniac. 
She  knew,  as  well  as  I  did,  that  she  was  playing 
a  game  of  make-believe  :  she  was  not  the 
victim  of  any  sort  of  delusion,  and  her  obsession 
never  became  pathological  or  threatened  to 
become  so. 


MISS    LETTIOE  125 

Things  went  on  like  this  for  ten  years  or  so. 
She  lived  untroubled  among  her  dreams  until 
some  few  months  ago.  During  the  war 
Bernard  led  an  existence  even  more  shadowy 
than  usual.  Of  course  he  enlisted,  and  was 
wounded,  and  won  decorations  for  his  valour  ; 
and  Miss  Lettice,  knitting  socks  for  more 
substantial  soldiers,  continued  to  play  her 
secret  game  by  fancying  that  they  would  com- 
fort the  feet  of  her  son.  The  change  came,  as 
I've  said,  not  many  months  ago,  and  it  shewed 
itself  first  of  all  in  our  conversations.  From 
those  conversations  Bernard  was  painlessly 
excluded,  and  his  place  taken  by  a  young  man 
weighing  twelve  stone  or  more.  You'll  know 
the  name  well  enough — Jack  Turnbull,  the 
stationmaster's  son.  Jack  began  to  loom  so 
large  in  the  hopes  and  fears  of  Miss  Lettice 
that  I  became  uneasy,  the  more  so  because 
I  had  been  the  instrument  of  bringing  them 
together.  It  was  this  way.  During  the  latter 
part  of  the  war,  and  ever  since,  Miss  Lettice 
had  found  it  increasingly  difficult  to  manage 
on  her  extremely  modest  income,  and  music 
pupils  were  more  in  request  than  ever.  I 
did  what  I  could  for  her  by  dropping  a  recom- 
mendation here  and  there,  and  among  others 
I  enlisted  the  active  sympathy  of  old  Turnbull. 
Together  we  hatched  a  little  conspiracy,  the 


126  MISS    LETTICE 

upshot  of  which  was  that  Jack,  a  big  hulking 
fellow  approaching  thirty  years,  was  fired  with 
a  sudden  ambition  to  become  an  amateur 
pianist.  Jack  had  done  well  in  the  army, 
and  finding  himself  in  mufti  again,  at  a  loose 
end,  and  with  a  captain's  gratuity  standing  to 
his  credit  at  Cox's,  he  lent  himself  very  readily 
to  the  amiable  fraud.  His  three  hours  tuition 
a  week  was  very  useful  to  Miss  Lettice  ;  but 
it  proved  her  undoing.  For  now  we  come 
to  the  hopeless  passion  I  spoke  of.  And  I 
needn't  stop  to  assure  you  that  there's  nothing 
scandalous  in  this  tragic  affair.  Miss  Lettice 
fell  in  love  with  Jack,  but  the  love  she  yearned 
to  lavish  on  him  was  maternal  love.  If  you 
think  me  perverse  in  calling  that  love  a  hopeless 
passion  I  must  disagree  with  you.  It  was 
passion,  and  it  was,  in  part,  physical  passion, 
as  all  human  love  must  be.  Why  do  we  shrink 
from  admitting  that  maternal  love  is  as  deeply 
rooted  in  the  body  as  any  other  ?  Miss  Let- 
tice loved  Jack  Turnbull  for  his  strength,  his 
masculinity,  his  youth,  and  because,  by  a  fatal 
coincidence,  he  was  born  in  the  same  month 
of  the  same  year  as  her  Bernard.  In  a  sense  it 
was  the  calendar  that  killed  the  Miss  Lettice 
we  knew  and  set  in  her  stead  a  witless  child. 
No  doubt  Jack  seemed  to  her  a  gift  from 
God,  a  wonderful  consolation  prize,  a  token 


MI,SS    LETT  ICE  127 

of  the  heavenly  forgiveness.  Indeed  she  told 
me  as  much  when,  with  the  air  of  imparting 
to  me  her  dearest  secret,  she  said  that  Jack 
was  coming  to  lodge  with  her.  She  had 
bought  some  pretty  things  for  his  bedroom, 
worked  ornamental  bolster-slips  with  her  own 
ringers,  and  replaced  the  dressing-table  by  a 
chest  of  drawers  dragged  in  from  her  own 
room.  I  hardly  dared  to  hint  my  misgiving. 
'  Are  you  quite  sure  he  is  coming  ?  '  I  ventured. 
*  I  fancied  he  would  soon  be  looking  out  for  a 
job.  Young  men  can't  remain  idle  for  long 
nowadays,  you  know.'  But  she  wouldn't  hear 
of  my  doubts.  Jack  would  get  work  at  the 
station  under  his  father.  He  hadn't  exactly 
promised  to  come  to  her,  but  she  had  urged 
it  and  she  knew  he  would  humour  an  old 
woman. 

I  was  by  no  means  so  sure,  and  I  made  up 
my  mind  to  tackle  Master  Jack  at  the  earliest 
possible  moment.  I  called  at  his  father's 
house  and  left  a  message  asking  him  to  make  a 
point,  if  he  could,  of  calling  at  the  vicarage. 
He  came  the  same  evening.  '  Well,  Turnbull,' 
I  said.  '  I  hear  you're  thinking  of  changing 
your  quarters  ?  ' 

He  looked  as  guilty  and  uncomfortable  as 
though  I  had  surprised  him  with  his  hand  in 
somebody's  till.  '  Has  it  got  round  already  ? 


128  MISS    LETTIGE 

Why,  I've  told  no  one  outside  the  family. 
Why  can't  people  hold  their  tongues  !  ' 

'  My  dear  fellow,'  I  said.  '  I'm  sorry  if 
I've  annoyed  you.  But  I  really  don't  see  why 
you  should  be  so  secretive  about  it.  And  it 
wasn't  your  father  who  told  me.' 

*  Who  was  it  ?  '  He  spoke  curtly.  Four 
years  as  an  infantry  officer  hadn't  improved  his 
manners. 

1  It  was  Miss  Lettice  herself.' 

I  have  never  seen  a  man  more  astonished. 
'  Miss  Lettice  !  Miss  Lettice  told  you  ! 
Damn  it,  sir,  she  doesn't  know  !  '  After  a 
moment's  stupefied  silence  he  added,  with  an 
air  of  apology,  *  But  perhaps  we're  at  cross- 
purposes.  What  was  it  that  Miss  Lettice 
told  you  ? ' 

4  Only  that  you're  going  to  lodge  in  her 
house.  Nothing  to  get  excited  about.' 

He  began  striding  about  the  room.  *  We 
are  certainly  at  cross-purposes  all  right.  I 
thought  you  meant  Canada.  I'm  leaving  next 
week  for  Canada.' 

'  For  a  holiday  ?  '  I  ineptly  inquired. 

'  For  keeps,'  said  Jack.  '  Mounted  Police, 
with  a  commission  soon,  I  hope.  This  country's 
gone  to  the  dogs,  sir.' 

Here  was  a  pretty  mess  !  '  But  look  here, 
Turnbull,  Miss  Lettice  has  got  it  into  her  head 


MISS    LETTICE  129 

that  you're  going  there  as  a  lodger.  Have 
you  given  her  any  cause  to  believe  such  stuff  ? ' 

At  that  the  swagger  dropped  off  him. 
*  That  woman,  I'm  sorry  for  her,  but  she  gets 
on  my  nerves.  She  gushes  too  much  for  my 
taste.  She  wants  to  mother  me,  if  you  ever 
heard  such  rot.  And  I  won't  be  mothered.' 

'  That's  all  very  well,'  I  cut  in.  '  But  why 
say  this  to  me  ?  Miss  Lettice  is  the  person 
you  should  complain  to.  Are  you  content 
to  let  her  go  on  living  in  a  fool's  paradise  ?  ' 

Well,  you  can  pretty  well  guess  how  the 
conversation  proceeded.  We  argued  for  the 
best  part  of  three  hours.  Jack  was  determined 
not  to  yield  to  her  devouring  maternal  affection, 
but  he  hadn't  pluck  enough  to  tell  her  so  out- 
right. He  preferred  to  save  his  own  feelings 
by  equivocation.  The  coward  does  it  with  a 
kiss,  you  know,  the  brave  man  with  the 
sword.  But  I  must  do  him  the  justice  to 
admit  that,  short  of  brutal  explicitness,  he  did 
all  he  could  to  disabuse  her  mind  of  its  fond 
fiction.  I  was  aghast  when  I  realized  that  the 
secret  of  his  departure  was  being  kept  solely 
in  order  that  he  might  slip  out  of  the  country 
without  bidding  her  good-bye.  After  long 
battle  I  wrung  from  him  a  reluctant  promise 
that  he  would  spare  her  that  culminating 
cruelty. 

S.E.  K 


i3o  MISS    LETTICE 

And  that  is  the  end  of  the  story.  I  too  was 
a  coward,  for  I  did  not  dare  to  visit  Miss 
Lettice  until  Jack  had  gone.  In  point  of  fact 
I  watched  him  off  the  premises  and  then  stepped 
in,  unwillingly  enough  but  hoping  to  afford 
the  wretched  woman  some  comfort,  if  only 
the  comfort  of  distraction.  The  front  door 
yielded  to  my  push  :  it  was  seldom  locked.  I 
tapped  at  the  door  of  the  sitting-room.  There 
was  no  sound  from  within.  Gently  I  turned 
the  handle  and  looked  in. 

'  Good  morning,  Miss  Lettice,'  I  said,  with 
a  cheerfulness  that  was  idiotic,  I  dare  say,  but 
what  was  one  to  do  ? 

Miss  Lettice  sat  staring  at  the  wall  in  front 
of  her,  staring  fixedly,  motionless.  Whether 
she  heard  my  voice  or  not  I  don't  know,  but 
she  neither  moved  nor  spoke.  I  became 
very  anxious  and  called  to  her  again,  offering 
such  dry  crumbs  of  comfort  as  came  to  hand. 
'  Don't  grieve,  my  dear  Miss  Lettice.  There's 
still  Bernard  left  to  you.'  Something  of  that 
sort  I  said  to  her,  but  it  made  no  difference  at 
all.  She  was  struck  down,  struck  worse  than 
dead,  by  the  colossal  and  cruel  power  of  love. 
And  while  I  continued  to  stare  at  her  with 
pity  and  horror,  she  slowly  turned  towards 
me,  as  though  on  a  swivel,  a  face  marred  out  of 
recognition  by  a  smile.  .  .  . 


MISS    LETTICE  131 

Saunders  winced.  His  lips  had  hesitated 
in  releasing  those  last  words.  Lifting  one 
hand  to  his  eyes,  he  turned  away  from  me 
towards  his  bookshelves.  There,  with  a  book 
in  his  hand,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  if  to 
shake  off  the  grip  of  a  memory. 

'  If  it's  standard  trees  you're  having,'  he 
remarked,  *  you'll  want  light  six-feet  stakes. 
Bowers  is  your  man.' 


WEDDING-DAY 


W  E  D  D  I N  G-D  A  Y 

WEDDING-DAY.  It  was  curiously  un- 
real. His  own  face  grimaced  back  at 
him  as  he  struggled  to  adjust  his  tie,  a  face  that 
no  man  could  feel  satisfied  with.  '  I  sometimes 
wish  Uncle  Edgar  hadn't  died  after  all,'  he 
confided  to  the  looking-glass.  Round  and 
pink,  with  a  wisp  of  light  brown  moustache 
that  didn't  seem  to  belong  to  it,  that  ghost  of 
himself  continued  to  agonize.  Funny,  what 
women  could  see  to  admire  in  men.  As  for 
Florrie's  devotion  to  himself,  the  unreasonable- 
ness of  it,  the  obstinacy,  positively  vexed  him. 
If  it  hadn't  been  for  that  little  legacy  they  would 
have  had  to  wait  another  five  years.  Not  that 
he  wanted  to  wait,  but  still — five  years  was 
five  years,  time  to  turn  round  in.  That  fifty 
pounds  a  year  had  made  just  the  difference  ; 
it  had  brought  this  day  within  his  immediate 
reach  ;  his  heart's  desire,  glowing  like  luminous 
fruit  upon  an  inaccessible  tree,  had  bent 
suddenly  towards  him,  and  his  hand  was 
already  poised  to  grasp  it.  Fateful  moment. 

135 


136  WEDDING-DAY 

It  didn't  bear  thinking  about.  The  old  man 
ought  not  to  have  sprung  it  on  him  like  this. 

'  Cheer-O,  Bert  !  '  There  was  a  bang  upon 
the  bedroom  door,  and  before  it  could  be 
answered  the  attacking  force  entered  tumultu- 
ously.  It  was  a  large  red-headed  man,  dressed 
unmistakably  for  the  approaching  ceremony, 
tall,  clean-shaven,  possessing  hands  a  size  too 
big  for  his  body. 

'  Hullo,  elephant  ! '  He  resented  the  fel- 
low's entry,  and  yet  in  some  vague  way  he  was 
glad  of  it.  He  wanted  to  be  alone  with  his 
dreams,  but  he  feared  to  be  alone  with  his 
doubts.  Well,  in  a  few  hours  solitude  would 
be  a  thing  of  the  past  indeed.  Florrie  and  he 
would  be  together,  sleeping  and  waking,  in 
sickness  and  in  health,  till  death  them  did 
part.  Forty  years,  perhaps,  and  never  alone. 
Breakfast  with  Florrie,  the  eight-thirteen  to 
town,  the  six-five  back,  a  late  tea  with  Florrie, 
conversation  with  Florrie,  supper  with  Florrie  ; 
and  week-ends  spent  going  to  church  or  digging 
in  the  garden.  There  was  no  escape  now. 
Escape  !  Who  wanted  to  escape  ?  Not  he, 
anyhow.  And  that  was  fortunate,  for  here 
was  Maurice,  the  jubilant  best  man,  and 
Florrie's  brother  to  boot.  No  escape. 

'  You'd  better  pull  your  socks  up,  old 
feller,'  said  Maurice,  his  face  bisected  by  a 


WEDDING-DAY  137 

grin.  '  You  haven't  got  as  much  time  to 
spare  as  you  seem  to  think.  Cab's  at  the 
door.' 

It  was  fortunate,  he  knew,  that  the  tide  of 
events  was  sweeping  him  along,  or  he  would  have 
stood  for  ever  staring  at  himself  in  a  dream 
of  indecision.  Yet  he  hated  to  be  bustled. 
He  was  still  a  free  man,  and  there  leapt  to  life 
in  him  a  spark  of  anger  against  the  man  who 
sought  to  wrest  that  freedom  from  his  grasp 
before  the  hour  had  struck.  It  would  strike 
soon  enough,  but  until  then  ...  it  seemed 
suddenly  necessary  that  he  should  assert  his 
independence  of  Maurice.  His  toilet  was 
already  completed,  but  he  would  delay  a  while 
yet. 

*  All  right.  I  won't  keep  you  a  minute.' 
He  spoke  with  an  affected  coolness,  as  though 
addressing  an  importunate  commercial  traveller. 
And,  without  haste,  he  picked  up  from 
the  dressing-table  a  small  pair  of  nail-scis- 
sors. With  these  he  began  cutting  off  his 
moustache. 

4  Hullo,  what's  the  game  ?  '  asked  Maur- 
ice. 

'  Time  that  thing  came  off,'  replied  Bert, 
still  plying  the  scissors.  *  Pour  me  out  a  spot 
of  water  for  shaving,  there's  a  good  chap  .  .  . 
No,  cold'll  do.' 


i38  WEDDING-DAY 

The  world  without  was  ablaze  with  summer, 
a  beacon  in  the  grey  waste  of  infinity,  a  fire- 
ball flung  into  the  darkness.  The  sky  flamed 
beauty  down  upon  the  responsive  pavements. 
But  he,  stubbornly,  remained  shut  in  his  cold 
introspection.  It  was  as  if  he  alone  of  all 
created  things  was  able  to  resist  the  infection 
of  gladness  that  the  warm  air  held.  Forty 
years,  forty  years.  The  dailyness  of  life 
terrified  him.  The  amiable  Maurice  became 
for  him  the  symbol  of  all-conquering  circum- 
stance. 

It  was  a  new  Florrie  who  joined  him  at  the 
altar,  a  Florrie  veiled,  mysterious,  and  therefore 
seductive.  '  Therefore  '  was  the  word  stressed 
by  the  devil  in  his  brain.  But  she  was  unde- 
niably pretty,  and  so  fragile,  so  like  a  piece  of 
exquisite  china,  that  he  held  his  breath  in  awe 
when  she  yielded  her  hand  to  his.  This  was 
the  lovely  ingenuous  child  that  life,  day  by 
day,  year  by  year,  would  bend  and  break,  and 
finally  cast  aside.  His  was  to  be  the  dubious 
privilege  of  watching  that  process,  of  watching 
the  hair  go  grey,  the  face  wrinkle,  the  child- 
dreams  die  one  by  one.  His  heart  beat  with 
a  profound  pity.  Poor  little  devil,  they  were 
both  in  the  same  boat.  She  too  was  swearing 
her  freedom  away,  taking  the  veil  of  everlasting 
monotony.  And,  irrationally,  he  blamed  not 


WEDDING-DAY  139 

himself,  not  her,  but  the  officiating  clergyman, 
the  guests,  and  most  of  all  that  fellow  Maurice. 
He  was  glad  that  he  had  not  allowed  himself 
to  be  bustled  by  Maurice,  glad  to  feel  that 
soreness  of  the  upper  lip  which  bore  witness  to 
his  not  having  been  bustled. 

The  clergyman  at  whose  feet  he  knelt  was 
tactfully  gabbling  words  about  the  procreation 
of  children.  Some  one  in  the  pews  behind 
was  sniffing  tearfully.  That  would  be  Florrie's 
mother,  no  doubt,  that  angular  female  version 
of  Maurice.  He  became  almost  bemused  by 
the  drowsy  noises,  like  bees  in  a  bottle,  emitted 
by  the  priest.  The  sunlight,  pouring  through 
the  stained-glass  window,  cast  a  luminous 
many-coloured  pattern  across  the  chancel  floor. 
The  colours  entered  him — his  eyes,  his  nostrils, 
his  very  veins — and  made  his  blood  tingle  in 
tune  with  their  brightness.  A  faint  purple,  like 
wine  stains  ;  a  rich  yellow,  like  harvested  corn — 
they  rang  their  little  bell-melodies  in  his 
consciousness  till  he  lost  count  of  time. 

'  And  I  hope  you'll  be  very  happy.  Now 
we'll  go  to  the  vestry.' 

With  Florrie  clinging  to  his  arm  he  went 
to  the  vestry  ;  and  there  a  swarm  of  relations, 
like  honey-seeking  bees,  descended  upon  them. 
'  Florrie,  you  look  too  sweet  ! '  '  Bert,  you  dear 
old  thing  1  '  And  so  on. 


HO  WEDDING-DAY 

Florrie's  younger  brother  approached,  fresh 
from  school.  'Gratters,  old  horse.  She's  a 
good  girl.  I've  trained  her  well.  But  what's 
happened  to  the  cricket  teams  ? ' 

'  The  what  ? ' 

4  Cricket  teams.     Eleven  a  side,  you  know.' 

Florrie  translated.  '  He  means  your  mou- 
stache, Bert.  Why  did  you  shave  it  off?  I 
wish  you  hadn't.' 

He  experienced  a  pang  of  compunction. 
Curse  it,  why  had  he  shaved  it  off  ?  *  Oh,  I 
don't  know.  Thought  I'd  feel  freer  without 
it.' 

Maurice,  the  omnipotent  Maurice,  bore 
down  on  them.  '  Off  we  go  !  '  he  said  briskly. 
Why  was  he  always  in  such  a  devil  of  a  hurry  ? 
Bert  and  his  bride  began  marching  down 
the  aisle.  He  wanted  to  dance  :  not  with 
joy,  but  because  it  was  so  difficult  to  walk 
against  the  tempo  of  Mendelssohn's  Wedding 
March. 

Outside,  the  world  still  blazed.  And  a 
hundred  eyes  stared.  He  handed  Florrie 
into  the  waiting  cab,  and  leaped  in  after  her, 
with  grains  of  rice  trickling  down  his  back. 
Maurice,  the  gaoler,  shut  the  door  behind 
them,  and  then,  with  incredible  agility,  thrust 
his  head  through  the  open  window-space, 
elongated  his  neck,  and  kissed  his  sister  on 


WEDDING-DAY  141 

the  cheek.  '  Best  of  luck,  both.'  He  with- 
drew. The  taxi  moved  on,  gobbling  like  a 
turkey.  '  I'm  glad  I  had  that  shave,'  said 
Bert  viciously.  The  forty  years  began. 


DEARTH'S     FARM 


DEARTH'S    FARM 

IT  is  really  not  far  :  our  fast  train  does  it  in 
eighty  minutes.  But  so  sequestered  is  the 
little  valley  in  which  I  have  made  my  solitary 
home  that  I  never  go  to  town  without  the 
delicious  sensation  of  poising  my  hand  over  a 
lucky-bag  full  of  old  memories.  In  the  train 
I  amuse  myself  by  summoning  up  some  of 
those  ghosts  of  the  past,  a  past  not  distant  but 
sufficiently  remote  in  atmosphere  from  my 
present  to  be  invested  with  a  certain  sentimental 
glamour.  '  Perhaps  I  shall  meet  you— or 
you.'  But  never  yet  have  I  succeeded  in 
guessing  what  London  held  up  her  sleeve  for 
me.  She  has  that  happiest  of  tricks — with- 
out which  paradise  will  be  dull  indeed — the 
trick  of  surprise.  In  London,  if  in  no  other 
place,  it  is  the  unexpected  that  happens.  For 
me  Fleet  Street  is  the  scene  par  excellence  of 
these  adventurous  encounters,  and  it  was  in 
Fleet  Street,  three  months  ago,  that  I  ran  across 
Bailey,  of  Queens',  whom  I  hadn't  seen  for 
five  years.  Bailey  is  not  his  name,  nor  Queens' 

s.B.  145 


146  DEARTH'S    FARM 

his  college,  but  these  names  will  serve  to  reveal 
what  is  germane  to  my  purpose  and  to  conceal 
the  rest. 

His  recognition  of  me  was  instant  ;  mine 
of  him  more  slow.  He  told  me  his  name 
twice  ;  we  stared  at  each  other,  and  I  struggled 
to  disguise  the  blankness  of  my  memory. 
The  situation  became  awkward.  I  was  the 
more  embarrassed  because  I  feared  lest  he 
should  too  odiously  misinterpret  my  non- 
recognition  of  him,  for  the  man  was  shabby 
and  unshaven  enough  to  be  suspicious  of  an 
intentional  slight.  Bailey,  Bailey  .  .  .  now 
who  the  devil  was  Bailey  ?  And  then,  when 
he  had  already  made  a  gesture  of  moving  on, 
memory  stirred  to  activity. 

'  Of  course,  I  remember.  Bailey.  Theoso- 
phy.  You  used  to  talk  to  me  about  theosophy, 
didn't  you  ?  I  remember  perfectly  now.'  I 
glanced  at  my  watch.  '  If  you're  not  busy  let's 
go  and  have  tea  somewhere.' 

He  smiled,  with  a  hint  of  irony  in  his  eyes, 
as  he  answered  :  'I'm  not  busy.'  I  received 
the  uncomfortable  impression  that  he  was 
hungry  and  with  no  ordinary  hunger,  and  the 
idea  kept  me  silent,  like  an  awkward  school- 
boy, while  we  walked  together  to  a  tea-shop 
that  I  knew. 

Seated  on  opposite  sides  of  the  tea-table  we 


DEARTH'S    FARM  147 

took  stock  of  each  other.  He  was  thin,  and  his 
hair  greying  ;  his  complexion  had  a  soiled 
unhealthy  appearance  ;  the  cheeks  had  sunk 
in  a  little,  throwing  into  prominence  the  high 
cheekbones  above  which  his  sensitive  eyes 
glittered  with  a  new  light,  a  light  not  of 
heaven.  Compared  with  the  Bailey  I  now 
remembered  so  well,  a  rather  sleek  young 
man  with  an  almost  feline  love  of  luxury 
blossoming  like  a  tropical  plant  in  the  exotic 
atmosphere  of  his  Cambridge  rooms,  compared 
with  that  man  this  was  but  a  pale  wraith. 
In  those  days  he  had  been  a  flaming  personality, 
suited  well — too  well,  for  my  plain  taste — to 
the  highly-coloured  orientalism  that  he  affected 
in  his  mural  decorations.  And  co-existent  in 
him  with  this  lust  for  soft  cushions  and  chro- 
matic orgies,  which  repelled  me,  there  was  an 
imagination  that  attracted  me  :  an  imagination 
delighting  in  highly-coloured  metaphysical 
theories  of  the  universe.  These  theories, 
which  were  as  fantastic  as  The  Arabian  Nights 
and  perhaps  as  unreal,  proved  his  academic 
undoing  :  he  came  down  badly  in  his  Tripos, 
and  had  to  leave  without  a  degree.  Many  a 
man  has  done  that  and  yet  prospered,  but 
Bailey,  it  was  apparent,  hadn't  prospered.  I 
made  the  conventional  inquiries,  adding,  '  It 
must  be  six  or  seven  years  since  we  met  last.' 


148  DEARTH'S    FARM 

'  More  than  that,'  said  Bailey  morosely, 
and  lapsed  into  silence.  '  Look  here,'  he  burst 
out  suddenly,  '  I'm  going  to  behave  like  a 
cad.  I'm  going  to  ask  you  to  lend  me  a 
pound  note.  And  don't  expect  it  back  in  a 
hurry.' 

We  both  winced  a  little  as  the  note  changed 
hands.  *  You've  had  bad  luck,'  I  remarked, 
without,  I  hope,  a  hint  of  pity  in  my  voice. 

*  What's  wrong  ? ' 

He  eyed  me  over  the  rim  of  his  teacup. 
'  I  look  a  lot  older  to  you,  I  expect  ? ' 

'  You  don't  look  very  fit,'  I  conceded. 

*  No,  I  don't/  His  cup  came  down  with  a 
nervous  slam  upon  the  saucer.  '  Going  grey, 
too,  aren't  I  ? '  I  was  forced  to  nod  agreement. 

*  Yet,  do  you  know,  a  month  ago  there  wasn't 
a  grey  hair  in  my  head.     You  write  stories, 
don't  you  ?     I  saw  your  name  somewhere.     I 
wonder  if  you  could  write  my  story.     You  may 
get  your  money  back  after  all  ...     By  God, 
that  would  be  funny,  wouldn't  it  1  ' 

I  couldn't  see  the  joke,  but  I  was  curious 
about  his  story.  And  after  we  had  lit  our 
cigarettes  he  told  it  to  me,  to  the  accompaniment 
of  a  driving  storm  of  rain  that  tapped  like  a 
thousand  idiot  fingers  upon  the  plate-glass 
windows  of  the  shop. 


DEARTH'S    FARM  149 


A  few  weeks  ago,  said  Bailey,  I  was  staying 
at  the  house  of  a  cousin  of  mine.  I  never 
liked  the  woman,  but  I  wanted  free  board 
and  lodging,  and  hunger  soon  blunts  the  edge 
of  one's  delicacy.  She's  at  least  ten  years  my 
senior,  and  all  I  could  remember  of  her  was 
that  she  had  bullied  me  when  I  was  a  child 
into  learning  to  read.  Ten  years  ago  she 
married  a  man  named  Dearth — James  Dearth, 
the  resident  owner  of  a  smallish  farm  in  Norfolk, 
not  far  from  the  coast.  All  her  relatives 
opposed  the  marriage.  Relatives  always  do. 
If  people  waited  for  the  approval  of  relatives 
before  marrying,  the  world  would  be  de- 
populated in  a  generation.  This  time  it  was 
religion.  My  cousin's  people  were  primitive 
and  methodical  in  their  religion,  as  the  name 
of  their  sect  confessed  ;  whereas  Dearth 
professed  a  universal  toleration  that  they 
thought  could  only  be  a  cloak  for  indifference. 
I  have  my  own  opinion  about  that,  but  it 
doesn't  matter  now.  When  I  met  the  man  I 
forgot  all  about  religion  :  I  was  simply  repelled 
by  the  notion  of  any  woman  marrying  so  odd 
a  being.  Rather  small  in  build,  he  possessed 
the  longest  and  narrowest  face  I  have  ever 
seen  on  a  man  of  his  size.  His  eyes  were  set 
exceptionally  wide  apart,  and  the  nose,  cul- 


150  DEARTH'S     FARM 

minating  in  large  nostrils,  made  so  slight  an 
angle  with  the  rest  of  the  face  that  seen  in 
profile  it  was  scarcely  human.  Perhaps  I 
exaggerate  a  little,  but  I  know  no  other  way 
of  explaining  the  peculiar  revulsion  he  inspired 
in  me.  He  met  me  at  the  station  in  his  dog- 
cart, and  wheezed  a  greeting  at  me.  '  You're 
Mr.  Bailey,  aren't  you  ?  I  hope  you've  had 
an  agreeable  journey.  Monica  will  be  de- 
lighted.' This  seemed  friendly  enough,  and 
my  host's  conversation  during  that  eight-mile 
drive  did  much  to  make  me  forget  my  first 
distaste  of  his  person.  He  was  evidently  a 
man  of  wide  reading,  and  he  had  a  habit  of 
polite  deference  that  was  extremely  flattering, 
especially  to  me  who  had  had  more  than  my 
share  of  the  other  thing.  I  was  cashiered 
during  the  war,  you  know.  Never  mind  why. 
Whenever  he  laughed,  which  was  not  seldom, 
he  exhibited  a  mouthful  of  very  large  regular 
teeth. 

Dearth's  Farm,  to  give  it  the  local  name,  is 
a  place  with  a  personality  of  its  own.  Perhaps 
every  place  has  that.  Sometimes  I  fancy 
that  the  earth  itself  is  a  personality,  or  a 
community  of  souls  locked  fast  in  a  dream 
from  which  at  any  moment  they  may  awake, 
like  volcanos,  into  violent  action.  Anyhow 
Dearth's  Farm  struck  me  as  being  peculiarly 


DEARTH'S     FARM  151 

personal,  because  I  found  it  impossible  not  to 
regard  its  climatic  changes  as  changes  of 
mood.  You  remember  my  theory  that  chemical 
action  is  only  psychical  action  seen  from 
without  ?  Well,  I'm  inclined  to  think  in 
just  the  same  way  of  every  manifestation  of 
natural  energy.  But  you  don't  want  to  hear 
about  my  fancies.  The  farmhouse,  which  is 
approached  by  a  narrow  winding  lane  from 
the  main  road,  stands  high  up  in  a  kind  of 
shallow  basin  of  land,  a  few  acres  ploughed  but 
mostly  grass.  The  countryside  has  a  gentle 
prettiness  more  characteristic  of  the  south- 
eastern counties.  On  three  sides  wooded  hills 
slope  gradually  to  the  horizon  ;  on  the  fourth 
side  grassland  rises  a  little  for  twenty  yards 
and  then  curves  abruptly  down.  To  look 
through  the  windows  that  give  out  upon  this 
fourth  side  is  to  have  the  sensation  of  being 
on  the  edge  of  a  steep  cliff,  or  at  the  end  of 
the  world.  On  a  still  day,  when  the  sun  is 
shining,  the  place  has  a  languid  beauty,  an 
afternoon  atmosphere.  You  remember  Tenny- 
son's Lotus  Isles,  '  in  which  it  seemed  always 
afternoon  '  :  Dearth's  Farm  has  something  of 
that  flavour  on  a  still  day.  But  such  days  are 
rare  ;  the  two  or  three  I  experienced  shine  like 
jewels  in  the  memory.  Most  often  that 
stretch  of  fifty  or  sixty  acres  is  a  gathering- 


152  DEARTH'S     FARM 

ground  for  all  the  bleak  winds  of  the  earth. 
They  seem  to  come  simultaneously  from  the 
land  and  from  the  sea,  which  is  six  miles 
away,  and  they  swirl  round  in  that  shallow 
basin  of  earth,  as  I  have  called  it,  like  maddened 
devils  seeking  escape  from  a  trap.  When 
the  storms  were  at  their  worst  I  used  to  feel 
as  though  I  were  perched  insecurely  on  a 
gigantic  saucer  held  a  hundred  miles  above  the 
earth.  But  I  am  not  a  courageous  person. 
Monica,  my  cousin,  found  no  fault  with  the 
winds.  She  had  other  fears,  and  I  had  not 
been  with  her  three  days  before  she  began  to 
confide  them  to  me.  Her  overtures  were  as 
surprising  as  they  were  unwelcome,  for  that 
she  was  not  a  confiding  person  by  nature  I 
was  certain.  Her  manners  were  reserved  to 
the  point  of  diffidence,  and  we  had  nothing  in 
common  save  a  detestation  of  the  family  from 
which  we  had  both  sprung.  I  suppose  you 
will  want  to  know  something  of  her  looks. 
She  was  a  tall,  full-figured  woman,  handsome 
for  her  years,  with  jet  black  hair,  a  sensitive  face, 
and  a  complexion  almost  Southern  in  its  dark 
colouring.  I  love  beauty  and  I  found  pleasure 
in  her  mere  presence,  which  did  something  to 
lighten  for  me  the  gloom  that  pervaded  the 
house  ;  but  my  pleasure  was  innocent  enough, 
and  Dearth's  watchdog  airs  only  amused  me. 


DEARTH'S     FARM  153 

Monica's  eyes — unfathomable  pools — seemed 
troubled  whenever  they  rested  on  me  :  whether 
by  fear  or  by  some  other  emotion  I  didn't  at 
first  know. 

She  chose  her  moment  well,  coming  to 
me  when  Dearth  was  out  of  the  house, 
looking  after  his  men,  and  I,  pleading  a 
headache,  had  refused  to  accompany  him. 
The  malady  was  purely  fictitious,  but  I  was 
bored  with  the  fellow's  company,  and  sick 
of  being  dragged  at  his  heels  like  a  dog  for  no 
better  reason  than  his  too  evident  jealousy 
afforded. 

*  I  want  to  ask  a  kindness  of  you,'  she  said. 
'  Will  you  promise  to  answer  me  quite  frankly  ? ' 
I  wondered  what  the  deuce  was  coming,  but  I 
promised,  seeing  no  way  out  of  it.  '  I  want 
you  to  tell  me,'  she  went  on,  '  whether  you  see 
anything  queer  about  me,  about  my  behaviour  ? 
Do  I  say  or  do  anything  that  seems  to  you  odd  ? ' 

Her  perturbation  was  so  great  that  I  smiled 
to  hide  my  perception  of  it.  I  answered 
jocularly  :  '  Nothing  at  all  odd,  my  dear 
Monica,  except  this  question  of  yours.  What 
makes  you  ask  it  ? ' 

But  she  was  not  to  be  shaken  so  easily  out 
of  her  fears,  whatever  they  were.  '  And  do 
you  find  nothing  strange  about  this  household 
either  ?  ' 


154  DEARTH'S     FARM 

*  Nothing   strange   at   all,'    I    assured   her. 
4  Your  marriage  is  an  unhappy  one,  but  so  are 
thousands  of  others.     Nothing  strange  about 
that.' 

'  What  about  him  ?  '  she  said.  And  her 
eyes  seemed  to  probe  for  an  answer. 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders.  *  Are  you  asking 
for  my  opinion  of  your  husband  ?  A  delicate 
thing  to  discuss.' 

*  We're  speaking  in  confidence,  aren't  we  ! ' 
She  spoke  impatiently,  waving  my  politeness 
away. 

'  Well,  since  you  ask,  I  don't  like  him.  I 
don't  like  his  face  :  it's  a  parody  on  mankind. 
And  I  can't  understand  why  you  threw  yourself 
away  on  him.' 

She  was  eager  to  explain.  '  He  wasn't 
always  like  this.  He  was  a  gifted  man,  with 
brains  and  an  imagination.  He  still  is,  for 
all  I  know.  You  spoke  of  his  face — now 
how  would  you  describe  his  face,  in  one 
word  ? ' 

I  couldn't  help  being  tickled  by  the  comedy 
of  the  situation  :  a  man  and  a  woman  sitting 
in  solemn  conclave  seeking  a  word  by  which 
to  describe  another  man's  face,  and  that 
man  her  husband.  But  her  air  of  tragedy, 
though  I  thought  it  ridiculous,  sobered  me.  I 
pondered  her  question  for  a  while,  recalling  to 


DEARTH'S     FARM  155 

my  mind's  eye  the  long  narrow  physiognomy 
and  the  large  teeth  of  Dearth. 

At  last  I  ventured  the  word  I  had  tried  to 
avoid.  '  Equine,'  I  suggested. 

'  Ah  1 '  There  was  a  world  of  relief  in  her 
voice.  '  You've  seen  it  too.' 

She  told  me  a  queer  tale.  Dearth,  it 
appears,  had  a  love  and  understanding  of 
horses  that  was  quite  unparalleled.  His  wife 
too  had  loved  horses  and  it  had  once  pleased 
her  to  see  her  husband's  astonishing  power 
over  the  creatures,  a  power  which  he  exercised 
always  for  their  good.  But  his  benefactions 
to  the  equine  race  were  made  at  a  hideous 
cost  to  himself  of  which  he  was  utterly  unaware. 
Monica's  theory  was  too  fantastic  even  for  me 
to  swallow,  and  I,  as  you  know,  have  a  good 
stomach  for  fantasy.  You  will  have  already 
guessed  what  it  was.  Dearth  was  growing, 
by  a  process  too  gradual  and  subtle  for  per- 
ception, into  the  likeness  of  the  horses  with 
whom  he  had  so  complete  sympathy.  This  was 
Mrs.  Dearth's  notion  of  what  was  happening 
to  her  husband.  And  she  pointed  out  some- 
thing significant  that  had  escaped  my  notice. 
She  pointed  out  that  the  difference  between 
him  and  the  next  man  was  not  altogether,  or 
even  mainly,  a  physical  difference.  In  effect 
she  said  :  '  If  you  scrutinize  the  features  more 


156  DEARTH'S    FARM 

carefully,  you  will  find  them  to  be  far  less 
extraordinary  than  you  now  suppose.  The 
poison  is  not  in  his  features.  It  is  in  the 
psychical  atmosphere  he  carries  about  with 
him  :  something  which  infects  you  with  the 
idea  of  horse  and  makes  you  impose  that  idea 
on  his  appearance,  magnifying  his  facial 
peculiarities.'  Just  now  I  mentioned  that  in 
the  early  days  of  her  marriage  Monica  had 
shared  this  love  of  horses.  Later,  of  course, 
she  came  to  detest  them  only  one  degree 
less  than  she  detested  her  husband.  That  is 
saying  much.  Only  a  few  months  before  my 
visit  matters  had  come  to  a  crisis  between  the 
two.  Without  giving  any  definite  reason,  she 
had  confessed,  under  pressure,  that  he  was 
unspeakably  offensive  to  her  ;  and  since  then 
they  had  met  only  at  meals  and  always  reluc- 
tantly. She  shuddered  to  recall  that  inter- 
view, and  I  shuddered  to  imagine  it.  I  was 
no  longer  surprised  that  she  had  begun  to  enter- 
tain doubts  of  her  own  sanity. 

But  this  wasn't  the  worst.  The  worst  was 
Dandy,  the  white  horse.  I  found  it  difficult 
to  understand  why  a  white  horse  should  alarm 
her,  and  I  began  to  suspect  that  the  nervous 
strain  she  had  undergone  was  making  her 
inclined  to  magnify  trifles.  '  It's  his  favourite 
horse,'  she  said.  '  That's  as  much  as  saying 


DEARTH'S     FARM  157 

that  he  dotes  on  it  to  a  degree  that  is  unhuman. 
It  never  does  any  work.  It  just  roams  the 
fields  by  day,  and  at  night  sleeps  in  the  stable.' 
Even  this  didn't,  to  my  mind,  seem  a  very 
terrible  indictment.  If  the  man  were  mad  on 
horses,  what  more  natural  than  this  petting  of  a 
particular  favourite  ? — a  fine  animal,  too,  as 
Monica  herself  admitted.  '  Roams  the  fields,' 
cried  my  poor  cousin  urgently.  '  Or  did  until 
these  last  few  weeks.  Lately  it  has  been  kept 
in  its  stable,  day  in,  day  out,  eating  its  head  off 
and  working  up  energy  enough  to  kill  us  all.' 
This  sounded  to  me  like  the  language  of 
hysteria,  but  I  waited  for  what  was  to  follow. 
*  The  day  you  came,  did  you  notice  how  pale 
I  looked  ?  I  had  had  a  fright.  As  I  was 
crossing  the  yard  with  a  pail  of  separated  milk 
for  the  calves,  that  beast  broke  loose  from  the 
stable  and  sprang  at  me.  Yes,  Dandy.  He 
was  in  a  fury.  His  eyes  burned  with  ferocity. 
I  dodged  him  by  a  miracle,  dropped  the  pail, 
and  ran  back  to  the  house  shrieking  for  help. 
When  I  entered  the  living-room  my  husband 
feigned  to  be  waking  out  of  sleep.  He 
didn't  seem  interested  in  my  story,  and  I'm 
convinced  that  he  had  planned  the  whole 
thing.'  It  was  past  my  understanding  how 
Dearth  could  have  made  his  horse  spring  out  of 
his  stable  and  make  a  murderous  attack  upon  a 


158  DEARTH'S    FARM 

particular  woman,  and  I  said  so.  '  You  don't 
know  him  yet,'  retorted  Monica.  '  And  you 
don't  know  Dandy.  Go  and  look  at  the  beast. 
Go  now,  while  James  is  out.' 

The  farmyard,  with  its  pool  of  water  covered 
in  green  slime,  its  manure  and  sodden  straw, 
and  its  smell  of  pigs,  was  a  place  that  seldom 
failed  to  offend  me.  But  on  this  occasion  I 
picked  my  way  across  the  cobblestones  thinking 
of  nothing  at  all  but  the  homicidal  horse  that 
I  was  about  to  spy  upon.  I  have  said  before 
that  I'm  not  a  courageous  man,  and  you'll 
understand  that  I  stepped  warily  as  I  neared 
the  stable.  I  saw  that  the  lower  of  the  two 
doors  was  made  fast  and  with  the  more  confi- 
dence unlatched  the  other. 

I  peered  in.  The  great  horse  stood,  bolt 
upright  but  apparently  in  a  profound  sleep. 
It  was  indeed  a  fine  creature,  with  no  spot  or 
shadow,  as  far  as  I  could  discern,  to  mar  its 
glossy  whiteness.  I  stood  there  staring  and 
brooding  for  several  minutes,  wondering  if 
both  Monica  and  I  were  the  victims  of  some 
astounding  hallucination.  I  had  no  fear  at  all 
of  Dandy,  after  having  seen  him  ;  and  it 
didn't  alarm  me  when,  presently,  his  frame 
quivered,  his  eyes  opened,  and  he  turned  to 
look  at  me.  But  as  I  looked  into  his  eyes  an 
indefinable  fear  possessed  me.  The  horse 


DEARTH'S     FARM  159 

stared  dumbly  for  a  moment,  and  his  nostrils 
dilated.  Although  I  half-expected  him  to  tear 
his  head  out  of  the  halter  and  prance  round 
upon  me,  I  could  not  move.  I  stared,  and  as 
I  stared,  the  horse's  lips  moved  back  from  the 
teeth  in  a  grin,  unmistakably  a  grin,  of 
malign  intelligence.  The  gesture  vividly 
recalled  Dearth  to  my  mind.  I  had  described 
him  as  equine,  and  if  proof  of  the  word's 
aptness  were  needed,  Dandy  had  supplied  that 
proof. 

*  He's  come  back,'  Monica  murmured  to  me, 
on  my  return  to  the  house.  '  111,  I  think. 
He's  gone  to  lie  down.  Have  you  seen 
Dandy  ? ' 

1  Yes.     And  I  hope  not  to  see  him  again.' 

But  I  was  to  see  him  again,  twice  again. 
The  first  time  was  that  same  night,  from  my 
bedroom  window.  Both  my  bedroom  and  my 
cousin's  looked  out  upon  that  grassy  hill  of 
which  I  spoke.  It  rose  from  a  few  yards  until 
almost  level  with  the  second  storey  of  the 
house  and  then  abruptly  curved  away.  Some- 
where about  midnight,  feeling  restless  and 
troubled  by  my  thoughts,  I  got  out  of  bed 
and  went  to  the  window  to  take  an  airing. 

I  was  not  the  only  restless  creature  that  night. 
Standing  not  twenty  yards  away,  with  the  sky 
for  background,  was  a  great  horse.  The  moon- 


i6o  DEARTH'S     FARM 

light  made  its  white  flank  gleam  like  silver, 
and  lit  up  the  eyes  that  stared  fixedly  at  my 
window. 


For  sixteen  days  and  nights  we  lived,  Monica 
and  I,  in  the  presence  of  this  fear,  a  fear  none 
the  less  real  for  being  non-susceptible  to 
definition.  The  climax  came  suddenly,  with- 
out any  sort  of  warning,  unless  Dearth's  idiotic 
hostility  towards  myself  could  be  regarded 
as  a  warning.  The  utterly  unfounded  idea 
that  I  was  making  love  to  his  wife  had  taken 
root  in  the  man's  mind,  and  every  day  his 
manner  to  me  became  more  openly  vindictive. 
This  was  the  cue  for  my  departure,  with  warm 
thanks  for  my  delightful  holiday  ;  but  I  didn't 
choose  to  take  it.  I  wasn't  exactly  in  love  with 
Monica,  but  she  was  my  comrade  in  danger 
and  I  was  reluctant  to  leave  her  to  face  her 
nightmare  terrors  alone. 

The  most  cheerful  room  in  that  house  was 
the  kitchen,  with  its  red-tiled  floor,  its  oak 
rafters,  and  its  great  open  fireplace.  And 
when  in  the  evenings  the  lamp  was  lit  and  we 
sat  there,  listening  in  comfort  to  the  ever- 
lasting gale  that  raged  round  the  house,  I 
could  almost  have  imagined  myself  happy,  had 


DEARTH'S    FARM  161 

it  not  been  for  the  presence  of  my  reluctant 
host.  He  was  a  skeleton  at  a  feast,  if  you 
like  !  By  God,  we  were  a  genial  party. 
From  seven  o'clock  to  ten  we  would  sit  there, 
the  three  of  us,  fencing  off  silence  with  the 
most  pitiful  of  small  talk.  On  this  particular 
night  I  had  been  chaffing  him  gently,  though 
with  intention,  about  his  fancy  for  keeping  a 
loaded  rifle  hanging  over  the  kitchen  mantel- 
piece ;  but  at  last  I  sickened  of  the  pastime, 
and  the  conversation,  which  had  been  sustained 
only  by  my  efforts,  lapsed.  I  stared  at  the 
red  embers  in  the  grate,  stealing  a  glance 
now  and  again  at  Monica  to  see  how  she  was 
enduring  the  discomfort  of  such  a  silence.  The 
cheap  alarum  clock  ticked  loudly,  in  the  way 
that  cheap  alarum  clocks  have.  When  I 
looked  again  at  Dearth  he  appeared  to  have 
fallen  asleep.  I  say  '  appeared,'  for  I  instantly 
suspected  him  of  shamming  sleep  in  order  to 
catch  us  out.  I  knew  that  he  believed  us  to 
be  in  love  with  each  other,  and  his  total  lack  of 
evidence  must  have  occasioned  him  hours  of 
useless  fury.  I  suspected  him  of  the  most 
melodramatic  intentions  :  of  hoping  to  see  a 
caress  pass  between  us  that  would  justify  him 
in  making  a  scene.  In  that  scene,  as  I  figured 
it,  the  gun  over  the  mantelpiece  might  play 
an  important  part.  I  don't  like  loaded  guns 

S.E.  M 


i6z  DEARTH'S     FARM 

The  sight  of  his  closed  lids  exasperated  me 
into  a  bitter  speech  designed  for  him  to  over- 
hear. '  Monica,  your  husband  is  asleep.  He 
is  asleep  only  in  order  that  he  may  wake  at  the 
chosen  moment  and  pour  out  the  contents 
of  his  vulgar  little  mind  upon  our  heads.' 

This  tirade  astonished  her,  as  well  it  might. 
She  glanced  up,  first  at  me,  then  at  her  hus- 
band ;  and  upon  him  her  eyes  remained  fixed. 
'  He's  not  asleep,'  she  said,  rising  slowly  out 
of  her  chair. 

'  I  know  he's  not,'  I  replied. 

By  now  she  was  at  his  side,  bending  over 
him.  '  No,'  she  remarked  coolly.  '  He's 
dead.' 

At  those  words  the  wind  outside  redoubled 
its  fury,  and  it  seemed  as  though  all  the  anguish 
of  the  world  was  in  its  wail.  The  spirit  of 
Dearth's  Farm  was  crying  aloud  in  a  frenzy 
that  shook  the  house,  making  all  the  windows 
rattle.  I  shuddered  to  my  feet.  And  in  the 
moment  of  my  rising  the  wail  died  away,  and 
in  the  lull  I  heard  outside  the  window  a  sudden 
sound  of  feet,  of  pawing,  horse's  feet.  My 
horror  found  vent  in  a  sort  of  desperate 
mirth. 

'  No,  not  dead.  James  Dearth  doesn't  die  so 
easily.' 

Shocked  by  my  levity,  she  pointed  mutely 


DEARTH'S     FARM  163 

to  the  body  in  the  chair.  But  a  wild  idea 
possessed  me,  and  I  knew  that  my  wild  idea 
was  the  truth.  '  Yes,'  I  said,  '  that  may 
be  dead  as  mutton.  But  James  Dearth  is 
outside,  come  to  spy  on  you  and  me.  Can't 
you  hear  him  ? ' 

I  stretched  out  my  hand  to  the  blind  cord. 
The  blind  ran  up  with  a  rattle,  and,  pressed 
against  the  window,  looking  in  upon  us,  was 
the  face  of  the  white  horse,  its  teeth  bared  in  a 
malevolent  grin.  Without  losing  sight  of  the 
thing  for  a  moment,  I  backed  towards  the 
fire.  Monica,  divining  my  intention,  took 
down  the  gun  from  its  hook  and  yielded  it  to 
my  desirous  fingers.  I  took  deliberate  aim, 
and  shot. 

And  then,  with  the  crisis  over,  as  I  thought, 
my  nerves  went  to  rags.  I  sat  down  limply, 
Monica  huddled  at  my  feet  ;  and  I  knew  with 
a  hideous  certitude  that  the  soul  of  James 
Dearth,  violently  expelled  from  the  corpse 
that  lay  outside  the  window,  was  in  the  room 
with  me,  seeking  to  re-enter  that  human  body 
in  the  chair.  There  was  a  long  moment  of 
agony  during  which  I  trembled  on  the  verge  of 
madness,  and  then  a  flush  came  back  into  the 
dead  pallid  cheeks,  the  body  breathed,  the 
eyes  opened.  ...  I  had  just  enough  strength 
left  to  drag  myself  out  of  my  seat.  I  saw 


164  DEARTH'S    FARM 

Monica's  eyes  raised  to  mine  ;  I  can  never  for 
a  moment  cease  to  see  them.  Three  hours 
later  I  stumbled  into  the  arms  of  the  station- 
master,  who  put  me  in  the  London  train  under 
the  impression  that  I  was  drunk.  Yes,  I 
left  alone.  I  told  you  I  wasn't  a  courageous 
man.  ,  .  . 


Bailey's  voice  abruptly  ceased.  The  tension 
in  my  listening  mind  snapped,  and  I  came  back 
with  a  jerk,  as  though  released  by  a  spring,  to 
my  seat  in  the  teashop.  Bailey's  queer  eyes 
glittered  across  at  me  for  a  moment,  and  then, 
their  light  dying  suddenly  out,  they  became 
infinitely  weary  of  me  and  of  all  the  sorry 
business  of  living.  A  rationalist  in  grain,  I 
find  it  impossible  to  accept  the  story  quite  as  it 
stands.  Substantially  true  it  may  be,  probably 
is,  but  that  it  has  been  distorted  by  the  prism 
of  Bailey's  singular  personality  I  can  hardly 
doubt.  But  the  angle  of  that  distortion  must 
remain  a  matter  for  conjecture. 

No  such  dull  reflections  came  then  to  mar  my 
appreciation  of  the  quality  of  the  strange  hush 
that  followed  his  last  words.  Neither  of  us 
spoke.  An  agitated  waitress  made  us  aware 
that  the  shop  was  closing,  and  we  went  into 
the  street  without  a  word.  The  rain  was 


DEARTH'S    FARM  165 

unremitting.  I  shrank  back  into  the  shelter 
of  the  porch  while  I  fastened  the  collar  of  my 
mackintosh,  and  when  I  stepped  out  upon  the 
pavement  again,  Bailey  had  vanished  into  the 
darkness. 

I  have  never  ceased  to  be  vexed  at  losing 
him,  and  never  ceased  to  fear  that  he  may  have 
thought  the  loss  not  unwelcome  to  me.  My 
only  hope  is  that  he  may  read  this  and  get  into 
touch  with  me  again,  so  that  I  may  discharge 
my  debt  to  him.  It  is  a  debt  that  lies  heavily 
on  my  conscience — the  price  of  this  story,  less 
one  pound. 


THE     GHOST 


THE    GHOST 

SEVEN  days  leave — how  exhilarating  ! 
Freedom  was  wine  in  the  mouth.  And 
though  of  those  seven  days  only  three  remained 
he  was  still  enjoying  a  delirious  intoxication. 
He  had  learned  the  art  of  squeezing  the  present 
moment  dry,  of  living  with  all  his  heart  in  a 
happy  now,  when  he  reached  one,  regarding 
the  long  intervals  of  wretchedness  as  unmeaning 
parentheses. 

*  I  was  a  silly  fellow  not  to  get  here  earlier. 
But  you  know  what  relatives  are.' 

'  You  were  both  silly  and  horrid,'  answered 
his  hostess.  But  her  eyes  danced  with  pleasure 
as  they  met  his,  and  the  two  friends  exchanged 
a  smile  of  understanding.  This  was  their 
good  time,  and  they  would  make  the  most  of 
it,  wasting  no  regret  on  the  past  and  admitting 
to  their  hearts  no  fear  of  the  great  black  future 
that  loomed,  like  a  beast  of  prey,  ready  to 
shatter  their  happiness  with  a  blow  of  its  paw. 
It  was  a  most  delightful  friendship,  and  that 
it  depended  on  mutual  liking  alone,  and  on 

169 


170  THE    GHOST 

no  sort  of  conventional  tie,  constituted  not  the 
least  of  its  charm.  Dressed  in  a  white  tub- 
frock,  her  small  face  from  under  a  drooping 
sun-hat  flushing  with  excitement,  Betty — 
publicly  known  as  Mrs.  Charles  Cowley — 
looked  exquisitely  cool  and  fresh  and  young, 
younger  even  than  her  years,  which  numbered 
twenty-seven.  It  did  Arnold's  eyes  good  to 
look  at  her,  and  it  sent  a  warm  thrill  through 
his  romantic  heart  that  he  was  able  to  enjoy 
that  comforting  sight,  able  to  bask  in  her  jolly 
friendliness,  without  a  thought  of  disloyalty 
towards  her  husband,  his  old  friend  Charles. 
So  far  as  he  could  feel  sorry  for  anyone  this 
morning  he  was  a  little  sorry  for  Charles  :  not 
because  Charles  was  an  ill-paid  clerk,  nor 
because  Charles's  was  a  retentive  firm  conspir- 
ing with  medical  officers  to  defeat  his  patriotic 
ambition,  but  merely  because  on  this  day  of 
all  days  he  had  to  remain  cooped  up  in  the 
city,  poor  devil. 

He  put  his  head  out  of  the  kitchen  window 
and  inhaled  the  summer  air  in  long  rapturous 
draughts.  Jove,  what  a  day  for  picnicking  ! 

4  Hullo  ! '  cried  Betty,  at  his  back.  *  What 
do  you  think  you're  achieving  by  that  ?  You 
can't  stop  to  do  your  breathing  exercises  now. 
Why,  you  haven't  packed  the  sandwiches  yet  ! ' 

Arnold  wheeled  round  and  saluted  her  in 


THE    GHOST  171 

military  fashion  —  a  form  of  humour  then  in 
vogue.    "Sorry,sir!  .  .  .     Anyhow,  have  y 
washing;  up  jour 


Betty  regarded  him  with  severity.  '  Yes,  of 
course.  Haven't  I  got  my  baton  and  waning 
for  yon  !  ' 

He  repeated  the  question  reflectively. 
'  Haven't  I  got  my  hat  on  and  waiting  for 
you?...  In  what  sense  is  your  hat  waiting 
for  me,  Betty?  As  the  dear  general  said  in 
Bcimud  Shaw,  I'm  only  a  sOry  soldier-man. 
Don't  harass  my  poor  intelligence.' 


with  one  pout.  Her  quick  fingers 
the  sandwiches,  and  wrapped  them  in  grease 
paper  snatched  from  the  table  drawer.  'Come 
along.  .  .  .  No,  Fm  going  to  carry  the  haver- 
sack. Yon  bring  the  thermos.* 

They  ulcfycd  out  of  the  bungalow  and  into 
rural  Buckinghamshire.  It  was  certainly  a 
unique  morning.  Earth  had  never  before 
been  so  fresh,  breathed  such  fragrance  ;  never 
before  had  the  sky  beat  so  intimately  over  her. 
After  an  hour's  walking  down  narrow  lanes 
between  sweet-smelling  hedgerows,  and  over 
hOb  bordered  by  pinewoods,  the  two  friends 
turned  into  a  field-path.  Tall  feathery  grasses, 
red-brown  dock-flowers  and  yellow  charlock 
trembled  ever  so  slightly  as  in  a  trance  of 


172  THE    GHOST 

ecstasy  ;  clover  and  ladies '-fingers,  buttercups 
and  celandine  seemed  to  Arnold's  imagination 
to  be  so  many  mute  faces,  absurdly  knowing, 
wonderfully  content.  When  they  reached 
their  second  stile  he  paused,  and  Betty  with 
him.  The  meadow  beyond  was  a  symphony 
in  green  and  yellow  :  a  curving  sweep  of  long 
grass  and  buttercups,  dazzled  with  sunlight  ; 
and  on  the  far  side,  by  a  pond,  black-and-white 
cows  were  browsing  in  the  shadow  of  tall  elms, 
some  dreaming  over  a  celestial  cud,  some  stoop- 
ing to  the  water,  some  cropping  the  jade-green 
grass  with  soft  enfolding  lips. 

*  How  still  it  looks,'  said  Betty. 

He  nodded,  drowsed  by  beauty,  yet  stabbed 
by  beauty's  pain.  He  wondered  if  he  were 
seeing  this  vision  of  England  for  the  last  time. 
'  And  how  alive,'  he  answered.  '  It's  as  if  the 
whole  field  were  breathing  and  feeling.  Dare 
we  go  into  it  ?  It's  like  walking  over  some 
one's  face/ 

Perhaps  in  that  moment  that  three-days- 
hence  future  thrust  its  ugly  face  into  Betty's. 
Perhaps  she  recalled  Arnold's  solitary  lapse 
from  soldierly  reticence,  when  he  had  said  : 
'  It's  not  the  actual  fighting  or  the  danger. 
It's  the  filth.  And  chance  sights.  A  decay- 
ing human  hand  sticking  out  of  the  side  of  a 
trench — things  like  that.'  Perhaps  she  recalled 


THE    GHOST  173 

this,  for  her  face  grew  unaccountably  tense. 

'  Come  along,  Arnold,  that's  where  we're 
going  to  have  lunch.  By  that  stream.'  She 
scrambled  over  the  stile  before  he  could  offer 
to  help  her.  He  followed  in  a  more  leisurely 
fashion,  a  little  disappointed  that  she  had 
broken  the  spell  of  that  meadow's  loveliness. 

They  sauntered  across  the  field,  and  climbed 
another  stile.  Then,  skirting  the  hedge  to  the 
left,  they  followed  the  brook  until  they  found 
an  agreeable  resting-place  on  the  sloping  grassed 
bank.  They  sat  down  a  few  yards  from  the 
pond  where,  as  in  a  picture,  the  cows  were 
grouped,  knee-deep  in  cool  grass.  Into  that 
little  lake,  which  reflected  the  sky's  blue  and 
gold,  the  brook  ran  clear  over  a  pebbly  bed. 
Arnold,  embracing  his  knees,  rested  his  chin 
on  them  and  stared  into  the  water,  admiring 
the  contours  and  colours  of  the  smooth, 
delicately-enamelled  stones,  and  straining  the 
imagination  to  share  the  lives  of  the  minute 
creatures  that  were  borne  past  in  the  stream. 
Betty  watched  him  with  a  covert  sidelong  look. 

A  unique  morning,  yes  ;  and  a  unique 
friendship  of  which  Arnold  was  immeasurably 
proud.  Beautifully  at  peace,  he  found  delight 
in  contemplating  their  relationship.  He  and 
Betty  were  the  most  staunch  of  comrades. 
There  was  implicit  trust  between  them,  unshak- 


174  THEGHOST 

able  fidelity,  and  never  a  thought  of  love.  He 
could  not  believe  that  ever  before  had  a  man 
and  a  girl  achieved  such  intimacy  without 
being  betrayed  into  a  wish  for  a  more  passionate 
symbol  of  that  intimacy  than  mere  talk.  But 
to  Arnold,  who  was  still  in  his  earliest  twenties, 
talk  was  the  best  thing  in  the  world.  And 
what  talks  he  had  had  with  Betty  !  With 
what  glorious  candour  she  had  disclosed  to 
him  the  secret  places  of  her  mind,  places  to 
which  even  her  mother  and  'sisters  had  never 
been  admitted  !  For  Arnold  it  was  a  fascinat- 
ing and  a  sacred  experience  ;  and  if  Betty's 
respect  for  his  intellect  was  exaggerated,  her 
absolute  trust  in  his  honour  was  at  least  well- 
founded.  It  was  this  absolute  trust  that  added 
to  their  friendship  the  delicious  flavour  of 
romance.  They  exchanged  ideas — on  life,  on 
religion,  on  sex,  especially  on  sex — with  utter 
unreserve,  and  with  no  hint  of  concession  to 
vulgar  notions  of  propriety. 

'  Look  at  those  jolly  little  red  worms,'  said 
Arnold,  pointing  to  the  water.  '  I  used  to 
dote  on  those  things  when  I  was  a  kid.' 

'  They're  lovely.'  Betty  paused  before  add- 
ing, a  trifle  consciously  :  '  Childhood's  the 
best  time,  isn't  it  ?  I  wish  I  had  a  baby.' 

He  glanced  up  with  quick  interest.  '  Well, 
why  not  ?  ' 


THEGHOST  175 

'  Ah,  why  !  I've  been  married  five  years. 
At  first  we  couldn't  afford  it,  and  now — well, 
something's  wrong.  For  two  years  or  more 
we've  been  hoping  for  a  child.' 

'  Rotten  luck  !  '  Arnold  looked  back  at  the 
stream. 

'  Yes.  I  wanted  to  tell  you.  You  see, 
there's  something  wrong  with  Charlie.' 

Arnold  became  alarmed.  *  Something  .  .  . 
physiological  ?  ' 

'  Yes.  The  doctor  told  him.  Nothing  very 
dreadful,  I  believe,  in  the  ordinary  way.  But 
it  makes  it  improbable  that  he'll  ever  have  a 
child.' 

'  And  he  wants  one  ?  ' 

Betty  turned  her  head  away  for  one  moment. 
'  /  want  one  ;  I  want  one  bitterly.  And  he 
too,  in  his  way.' 

Arnold  kept  his  gaze  steadily  upon  the 
moving  water,  lest  he  should  see  her  tears. 
He  was  shocked  to  think  that  this  girl,  so 
robust,  so  affectionate,  so  ripe  for  motherhood, 
should  be  cheated  by  the  accident  of  marriage 
of  a  tremendous  experience.  And  why  must 
it  be  so  ?  In  a  sensible  society  would  it  be 
so  ?  Before  he  had  begun  to  work  out  all  the 
implications  of  that  challenge,  Betty  spoke 
again. 

He  was  amazed  to  hear  her  phrasing  his 


176  THE    GHOST 

own  thoughts.  *  If  people  were  decent- 
minded,  it  wouldn't  so  much  matter,'  she  said. 
'  There  could  be  a  temporary  marriage  with 
someone  else.' 

Arnold  was  delighted  with  this  proof  of  her 
emancipation.  '  Exactly.  Nothing  simpler. 
But  society  won't  change  in  a  hurry.  No  use 
waiting  for  society.  It  rests  with  you  and 
Charlie.' 

'  He  would  agree,  of  course.  He  would  do 
anything  for  my  happiness.' 

Arnold  glowed  in  agreement.  Charles  was 
a  good  fellow,  the  best  fellow  in  the  world  ; 
he  had  a  level  head  and  a  wonderfully  rational 
outlook.  Nothing  niggardly  about  Charles 
.  .  .  And  then  an  extraordinary  thought 
presented  itself.  Why  could  not  he  himself 
give  Betty  her  heart's  desire  ?  Could  she 
possibly  have  any  such  notion  in  her  mind  ? 
Was  it  possible  that  she  liked  him  enough  for 
that  ?  The  dream  blossomed  in  his  imagina- 
tion. He  saw  the  baby  laughing  up  at  him 
from  its  cradle  ;  saw  it  growing  up  as  the  son 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Charles  Cowley.  He  him- 
self would  see  the  boy — for  a  boy  it  would 
be — only  occasionally,  and  he  would  be  known 
as  *  Uncle  Arnold  '  or  some  such  nonsense. 
The  situation  would  be  quite  impossibly 
romantic,  like  something  in  a  novel,  and  yet  a 


THEGHOST  177 

triumph  of  decency  and  good  sense  over  vulgar 
middle-class  morality.  Betty  and  he  would 
resume  their  friendship  unchanged  and  desiring 
no  change.  His  respect  for  her  was  invincible. 
She  was  the  wife  of  his  friend,  and  that  she 
would  always  be.  He  conceived  the  whole 
episode  dispassionately,  an  act  of  pure  friend- 
ship. Was  it  possible  that  she  .  .  .  ?  No, 
it  was  not  possible.  Talk  was  all  very  well, 
but  confronted  with  the  need  for  action  she 
would  falter.  His  thoughts  had  been  mere 
presumption.  Some  other  man,  perhaps,  but 
he — he  could  not  expect  so  great  an  honour, 
and  certainly  he  could  not  seek  it.  If  she  had 
meant  that  she  would  have  said  so.  Of  that 
he  was  sure.  He  dared  not  make  a  suggestion 
that  might  be  repellent  to  her  :  she  would  be 
so  cruelly  embarassed,  and  the  perfection  of 
their  comradeship  would  be  marred  for  ever. 

And  yet,  in  a  situation  so  excessively  delicate, 
he  must  venture  something  if  he  wished  to  be 
her  friend.  He  tried  to  say  :  '  You  know  I 
too  would  do  anything  to  make  you  happy/ 
But  the  words  as  they  formed  in  his  mind 
frightened  him.  How  could  he  make  her 
realize  the  utter  purity  and  loyalty  of  his 
desires  ? 

Despite  his  bewilderment  he  felt  the  moment 
to  be  exquisitely  rich  in  beauty  and  in  destiny. 

S.E.  N 


178  THE     GHOST 

The  pause  lengthened.  At  last  he  stammered, 
*  In  that  event,  of  course,  you  would  ask  .  .  . 
some  friend.' 

'  Yes.'  Betty's  tone  was  cold.  '  Forgive 
me  for  boring  you.'  She  jumped  up.  '  I'm 
getting  stiff.  Shall  we  move  on  ?  ' 

Something  had  gone  wrong.  Arnold  grap- 
pled feverishly  with  the  incomprehensible. 
Had  he  said  too  much  ?  No,  too  little.  Betty 
was  already  walking  away.  He  could  see  only 
her  back.  When  he  caught  her  up,  the  sight 
of  her  pride  made  him  angry  with  himself  ; 
yet  he  felt  tongue-tied.  He  knew  that  he  had 
failed  her  in  a  supreme  crisis.  Could  he  have 
had  that  opportunity  again  he  would  for  her 
sake  have  risked  all,  and  said,  '  Let  me  be  the 
father  of  your  child.'  But  she  was  talking 
now,  rather  volubly  and  consciously,  of  indif- 
ferent things.  Nothing  would  ever  be  the 
same  again.  Anger,  jealous  anger,  flamed  in 
his  heart  against  the  child,  never  to  be  born, 
who  stood  like  a  ghost  between  them,  severing 
their  friendship. 


THE     HOUSE     AT     M  A  A  D  I 


m       THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

PART   THE    FIRST 

An  Afternoon  in  April 

TGLINESS,  squalour,  is  only  a  nuisance, 

|^J  he  told  himself.  '  It  is  beauty  that 
hurts/  Even  in  the  house  at  Maadi,  the 
house  that  held  Rosemary  Fairfield,  he  could 
lose  himself  in  musing  ;  and  he  remained  lost 
until  he  became  aware  that  a  tall  elderly  woman 
with  fine  eyes  and  silvering  hair  moved  across 
the  room  to  greet  him. 

'  You're  Mr.  Redshawe,  of  course.  I'm 
Rosemary's  mother.  It  was  so  good  of  you 
to  come.'  The  young  man's  evident  shyness 
moved  her  to  add,  '  You  have  met  Rosemary, 
haven't  you  ?  ' 

'  Thank  you.'  He  found  his  voice  at  last. 
'  Yes,  I  had  that  pleasure  three  days  ago  in 
Cairo.  She  was  in  the  company  of  Mr.  Bun- 
nard,  my  chief.' 

'  My  brother-in-law,'  said  Mrs.  Fairfield. 
'  You  like  your  work  ?  ' 

181 


182        THE    HOUSE    AT     MAADI 

'  Well,'  began  Redshawe,  '  an  Irrigation 
Company  .  .  .' 

His  hostess  smiled.  At  ease  now,  and  repos- 
ing in  the  charm  of  her  Irish  voice  and  the 
kindliness  of  her  speaking  eyes,  he  smiled  in 
return.  As  he  looked  into  her  lined  face^  he 
felt  that  by  holding  himself  very  still  he  could 
almost  hear  the  silken  rustle  of  beauty's  vanish- 
ing skirts. 

'  Tell  me,'  Mrs.  Fairfield  said,  leaning  for- 
ward a  little,  '  does  my  brother-in-law  do  any 
work,  or  do  you  and  the  rest  do  it  all  ? ' 

He  stared  a  moment  at  the  dubious  crease 
in  his  trousers.  When  he  looked  up,  with  a 
slight  smile,  'I've  a  tremendous  respect  for 
Mr.  Bunnard,'  he  assured  her.  *  More  than 
respect,  if  it's  not  presumptuous  to  say  so. 
But  of  course  he's  a  very  big  wig  indeed,  don't 
you  see  ?  It's  only  natural  that  he  shouldn't 
do  very  much.' 

Mrs.  Fairfield  glowed  maternally  at  the 
sight  of  his  blushes. 

'  How  very  nice  you  are,'  she  surprised  her- 
self by  saying,  with  the  shadow  of  a  tremor 
in  her  voice.  'I'm  so  glad  you  came.' 

He  blushed  again  as  he  answered  :  'I'm 
most  amazingly  glad.  I  was  terrified  at  first.' 

Her  smile  was  friendlier  than  ever. 

'  Not  of  me,  I'm  sure.     Of  Mrs.  Bunnard, 


THE     HOUSE    AT     MAADI        183 

perhaps.     She    is    a    very    positive    person — 
always  has  been.' 

He  wanted  to  blurt  out  :  '  No,  it  was  your 
daughter  that  I  was  afraid  of '  ;  but  he  could 
not  shake  off  the  grip  of  his  reticence. 

*  So  are  all  of  that  cult,'  he  said.  '  They 
teach  one  their  entertaining  guesswork  as 
though  it  were  an  exact  science  .  .  .  And  Miss 
Fairfield — is  she  too  a  believer  ?  ' 

'  Rosemary  is  rather  a  baffling  girl,'  replied 
Rosemary's  mother.  '  She  spends  a  lot  of 
time  with  her  aunt,  and  listens,  listens.  Yes, 
that  is  almost  all  there  is  to  be  said  about  Rose- 
mary :  she  listens.  At  this  moment  she  is 
no  doubt  at  the  Cairo  Lodge,  hearing  about 
Yoga  and  Prana  and  Kamaloka.' 

'  And  other  patent  breakfast  foods,'  said 
Redshawe,  with  a  cadence  so  bitter  as  to  bring 
wonder  into  his  new  friend's  eyes. 

'  It  would  be  a  pity,  don't  you  think,'  he 
answered  the  question  in  her  glance,  '  if  she 
took  all  that  stuff  seriously  ?  ' 

'  Aren't  you  a  little  positive  ? '  she  quizzed 
him  ...  *  Ah,  here  is  Mr.  Bunnard.' 

Almost  boyishly  diffident,  the  spare  familiar 
figure  of  Redshawe's  chief  sidled  towards  them. 
Mr.  Bunnard  was  rather  above  medium  height, 
but  his  earnest  concentration  on  the  pattern 
of  the  carpet  made  him  seem  smaller.  When 


184        THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

he  raised  his  head  a  pair  of  ingenuous  wondering 
eyes  peered,  through  the  circular  lenses  of  his 
gold-rimmed  spectacles,  upon  a  new  world. 

'  Ah,  Redshawe,'  said  Mr.  Bunnard,  focus- 
sing his  mild  radiance  upon  the  young  man 
as  they  shook  hands, '  you've  come  then.  How 
very  nice.* 

'  You're  just  in  time  to  tell  us  about  the 
Atlantians,  Dick,'  Mrs.  Fairfield  greeted  him, 
with  the  air  of  having  been  discussing  the 
Atlantians  all  the  afternoon. 

'  Very  nice,'  repeated  Mr.  Bunnard,  peering 
from  one  to  the  other. 

*  Yes,  I've  come,  sir,'  said  Redshawe,  '  and 
I've  brought  every  one  of  my  seven  bodies 
with  me.' 

Mr.  Bunnard  considered  this  remark  with  a 
smile  that  revealed  for  the  fraction  of  a  second 
an  excellent  set  of  artificial  teeth. 

'  Ah,  you  haven't  forgotten  our  little  talk 
then.  .  .  .  But  you've  got  a  lot  to  learn  yet. 
Seven  planes  and  all  interpenetrating.  Is 
Hypatia  at  home,  Sheila  ? ' 

'  My  dear  Dick  !  She  is  at  the  Lodge,  of 
course,  and  Rosemary  is  with  her.  I  expect 
we  had  better  not  wait  tea  for  them.  They'll 
probably  have  something  in  Cairo.' 

'  Perhaps  Hassan  will  get  us  some  tea,'  ven- 
tured Mr.  Bunnard,  '  if  we  ask  him.' 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        185 

As  though  to  his  cue,  the  white-smocked, 
red-tarbooshed  Hassan,  the  Berber  servant, 
appeared  at  this  moment  in  the  doorway  bring- 
ing tea  on  a  large  tray.  In  response  to  Mrs. 
Fairfield's  nod  he  shuffled  noiselessly  into  the 
room,  bowing  and  smirking  in  his  expansive 
Oriental  fashion,  and  set  out  the  tea-things  on 
an  occasional  table. 

'  Seven  planes  and  all  interpenetrating,'  said 
Mr.  Bunnard,  appearing  to  extract  a  peculiar 
comfort  from  the  idea.  '  We  generally  take 
tea  in  the  French  manner — or  is  it  the  Russian  ? 
— with  lemon  juice  instead  of  milk.  By  the 
by,  I've  got  some  Thought  Forms  up  in 
my  den,  Redshawe,  that  might  interest  you. 
Angry,  affectionate,  ambitious,  pure,  envious, 
sensual,  and  so  on  :  all  accurately  coloured, 
you  know.  I've  spent  a  lot  of  time  on  them. 
You're  not  eating  anything.  I  can  recommend 
the  shortbread  :  it  came  all  the  way  from 
Scotland.' 

Mrs.  Fairfield,  roused  by  a  sound  outside, 
turned  in  the  act  of  filling  Redshawe's  cup  for 
the  fifth  time,  to  look  out  of  the  window. 

'  Here  are  the  truants,'  she  said,  '  and  we've 
nearly  finished.'  And  Redshawe,  following  her 
glance,  saw  the  miraculous  Rosemary  standing 
on  the  gravel  path  outside.  To  his  excited 
imagination  it  seemed  that  she  was  but  for  an 


186        THE     HOUSE     AT    MAADI 

instant  poised  lightly  upon  this  globe  before 
flying  back  to  the  paradise  from  which  she 
had  descended . 

Then  indeed  came  the  whirlwind  followed 
by  the  still  small  voice.  Mrs.  Bunnard,  tall, 
angular,  and,  though  quiet,  masterful,  with 
conscious  power  invaded  the  room  :  power 
which,  however,  broke  like  a  spent  wave  on 
the  adamant  rock  of  Redshawe's  absorption  in 
Rosemary  Fairfield. 

'  Mr.  Redshawe,  how  are  you  ?  '  said  Mrs. 
Bunnard,  grasping  his  hand.  '  We  have  never 
been  introduced,  but  I  know  you  perfectly. 
This  is  my  niece.' 

*  We  have  met  already,'  fell  like  a  benedic- 
tion from  the  lips  of  Rosemary,  as  she  gave 
him  her  hand. 

'  Now  let  us  take  our  things  off1,'  said  Mrs. 
Bunnard  with  ferocious  good  humour.  '  Come, 
Rosemary  ! ' 

A  moment  later  Redshawe  was  conscious  of 
having  stared  at  the  departing  vision.  The 
exodus  completed  by  Mr.  Bunnard,  he  turned 
to  find  the  thoughtful  eyes  of  Rosemary's 
mother  upon  him.  Divining  that  she  had 
read  some  of  his  mind  he  became  confused. 

Mrs.  Fairfield  rose  to  ring  the  bell  :  an 
action  so  startling  to  the  disordered  nerves  of 
Redshawe  that  he  breathed  deep  relief  when, 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        187 

a  moment  later,  he  heard  her  ask  Hassan  to 
make  some  fresh  tea  for  the  ladies.  His 
hostess  came  back  into  the  bay  of  the  room 
and  stared  out  at  the  clustering  purple  masses 
of  bougainvillea  that  hung  from  the  white 
house,  her  hands  playing  listlessly  with  a  fly- 
whisk. 

'  This  is  the  coolest  part  of  the  house  till 
the  sun  goes  down,'  she  said,  in  a  tone  so  void 
of  expression  as  to  fix  his  instant  attention. 
'  Afterwards  we  will  sit  out  on  the  piazza,  and 
perhaps  Rosemary  will  play  to  us.' 

*  That  will  be  delightful,'  he  answered, 
politely  acquiescent  ;  but  his  mind  was  asking  : 
'  What  is  the  matter  ?  What  is  she  going  to 
say  ?  ' 

He  became  agitated  with  the  expectation  of 
hearing  something  momentous  about  Rosemary. 
But,  after  a  pause,  Mrs.  Fairfield  did  but  add 
the  commonplace  remark  that  his  was  an 
uncommon  name. 

'  Yes.'  Disappointment  and  relief  strove 
together  in  his  tone. 

'  Are  you  the  son  of  a  certain  Stephen  Red- 
shawe,  I  wonder  ?  ' 

'  Yes,'  he  said  again,  with  quickening  interest. 

'  You  have  his  eyes,'  she  assured  him  with 
a  smile,  and  turned  quickly  to  the  window. 

'  By  Jove,  you  knew  my  father  ?  '     He  got 


i88        THE    HOUSE    AT     MAADI 

out  of  his  chair  in  his  astonishment,  and  found 
himself,  with  a  sense  of  shock,  face  to  face 
with  an  old  woman  who  smiled  at  him  wanly. 

*  Yes,  many  years  ago.' 

*  He  never  mentioned '  he  began  ;  and 

stopped,  blushing  for  his  gaucherie.     As  if  in 
atonement,  '  Please  talk  to  me  about  my  father, 
if  it  won't  distress  you,'  he  pleaded. 

After  a  long  silence,  '  Not  now,'  she  said. 
There's  a  story  I  can  never  tell  you.  But 
we're  going  to  be  good  friends,  you  and  I, 
and  some  day  we'll  have  a  long  talk  about 
your  father.' 

Embarrassed,  he  murmured  lame  thanks. 

'  There's  forty  years  between  us,'  she  added, 
half  to  herself.  '  So  we  shall  be  good  friends.' 

The  door  was  slightly  ajar  and  in  the  con- 
tracted doorway  flashed  the  smile  of  Mr. 
Bunnard. 

'  Come  along,  Redshawe,'  chirped  Mr.  Bun- 
nard. '  The  ladies  are  coming  down  to  their 
tea.  Slip  away  while  you  can  and  have  a  look 
at  my  Thought  Forms.' 

Redshawe,  obeying  this  unwelcome  sum- 
mons, mused  deeply  on  the  story  that  he  was 
never  to  hear. 


PART   THE    SECOND 

Sheila  Dyrle 


QOMEWHERE,  no  doubt,  in  Sheila's 
O  personality,  the  story  was  written  down  ; 
and  she  could  have  turned  for  young  Red- 
shawe  the  pages  that  she  so  seldom  and  so 
reluctantly  turned  for  herself.  She  was  an 
emotional  but  not  a  sentimental  woman,  and 
retrospect  was  a  melancholy  luxury  that  for 
the  most  part  she  denied  herself.  So  far  as 
she  could  she  denied  it  to  herself  now,  although 
the  young  man  had  troubled  the  deep  waters 
of  her  mind.  If  for  a  moment  she  looked  back 
her  life  appeared  to  her  as  a  fruitless  quest  for 
something — who  knows  what  ? — for  beauty, 
for  happiness,  for  an  absolute  and  harmonious 
intimacy,  for  everlasting  fulfilment  in  a  love 
that  is  the  answer  to  all  questions.  Intima- 
tions of  such  a  reality  had  again  and  again 
quickened  desire  within  her.  But,  even  in  the 

189 


I9o        THE     HOUSE    AT     MAADI 

moment  of  stretching  out  the  hands  to  clasp 
it,    '  beauty   vanishes,    beauty  passes  '    .  .  .  . 

Half  a  century  before,  in  her  early  teens, 
Sheila  had  emerged  from  her  sister's  bedroom 
into  the  green  distempered  corridor  of  the 
school  infirmary,  hotly  denying  in  her  heart 
that  Helena  was  dying.  She  wondered  at  the 
obtuseness  of  these  people  who  had  seen  the 
sweet  bloom  of  Helena's  cheeks  and  the  lustre 
of  her  eyes,  and  yet  drained  their  vocabulary 
of  euphemisms  hinting  at  death.  Weak  and 
wasted  indeed  she  was,  but  full,  still,  of  the 
serene  joy  that  was  her  peculiar  gift  to  the 
world.  God  couldn't  be  so  foolish  or  so  cruel 
as  to  let  Helena  die.  That  would  surely  have 
been  too  sorry  a  joke  even  for  the  deity  of 
Aunt  Hester's  imagination. 

'  Why  is  every  one  so  silly  ?  '  she  complained 
to  Aunt  Hester,  who  had  waited  in  trembling 
silence  till  her  coming.  '  Helena's  getting 
better.  Of  course  she  is.' 

'  Yes,  dear, 'agreed  Aunt  Hester  submissively. 
'  Did  you  have  a  nice  talk  ? ' 

'  We  couldn't  let  her  talk  much.  She's  still 
so  weak.  But  she  said  she  would  soon  be  out 
and  about  again.' 

Tears  began  trickling  down  the  lined  leathery 
cheeks  of  Aunt  Hester  :  cheeks  that  had  sud- 


THE     HOUSE    AT    MAADI         191 

denly  the  grotesque  air  of  having  been  corru- 
gated for  the  sole  purpose  of  being  wept  upon. 
*  Poor  darling  !  Did  she  say  that  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  aunt,  why  will  you  believe  those  silly 
people  ? '  Sheila's  voice  rang  out.  '  She  must 
get  well — she  must  \  ' 

'  We  must  hope  on,'  quavered  Aunt  Hester, 
furtively  dabbing  her  eyes  with  a  little  sodden 
ball  of  handkerchief. 

Sheila,  alone  in  her  faith,  succumbed  to  the 
fear  that  tried  to  hide  itself  in  anger.  '  It's 
too  bad,'  she  said.  '  It's  a  beastly  shame  .  .  . 
to  give  up  hope.  Think  how  well  she  looks  ! 
She's  been  making  plans  for  the  summer 
holidays.' 

At  that  Aunt  Hester  turned  away  her  head, 
hunched  up  her  back,  and  frankly  sobbed, 
leaning  against  the  back  of  a  chair.  All  her 
prim  dignity  had  vanished,  and  for  the  first  time 
Sheila  saw  in  her  aunt  an  old  frail  woman. 
The  shock  of  that  discovery  passing,  she  stared 
for  a  moment  in  sullen  misery  at  the  queer- 
shaped  convulsive  figure  ;  then  turned  abruptly 
away  and  went,  dry-eyed,  into  their  bedroom. 

In  bed  she  thought  she  could  hear  her  sister's 
voice  in  delirium,  although  she  knew  that 
there  were  two  walls  and  a  passage  between 
them  :  it  muttered  interminably  until  she  had 
to  bite  her  lips  together  to  prevent  herself  from 


i9z        THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

screaming.  Aunt  Hester  soon  came  into  the 
room,  undressed  herself  by  moonlight,  and 
tumbled  on  to  her  knees.  She  remained 
kneeling,  with  her  face  and  arms  lying  limply 
across  her  bed,  for  what  seemed  hours  ;  and 
Sheila  stared  stupidly  at  the  ceiling  and  strained 
her  ears  at  every  trivial  sound.  For  a  moment 
she  closed  her  eyes  .  .  , 

And  when  she  opened  them  again,  birds 
were  chattering  outside  her  window  and  pale 
dawnlight,  like  a  ghost,  was  in  the  room. 
'  Like  a  ghost,'  Sheila  said,  and  shuddered. 
Aunt  Hester  was  not  there  ;  her  bed  had  not 
been  slept  in. 

Sheila  got  quickly  out  of  bed,  a  dry  sob  of 
fear  breaking  from  her,  and  ran  barefooted 
into  the  green  corridor.  She  stood  quite 
motionless  for  a  while,  one  hand  resting  on 
the  door  handle,  and  listened  ;  tiptoed  a  few 
steps  up  the  passage,  her  eyes  fixed  dreadfully 
on  the  room  that  held  Helena  ;  and  drew  back 
again.  Time  became  a  throbbing  agony.  Her 
thought  dizzied  itself  by  ceaselessly  revolving 
round  the  glazed  white  door  that  had  brass 
figures,  1 7,  screwed  upon  its  middle  panel,  but 
her  eyes  steadily  stared.  '  Seventeen,'  said 
some  chattering  thing  in  her  brain  :  '  that's 
her  age.  Is  that  why  they  put  17,  or  is  it  a 
coincidence  ? '  But  she  was  not  to  be  dis- 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        193 

tracted  by  silly  questions.  The  door  began 
to  open. 

Slowly  the  glazed  white  door  that  had  stared 
back  at  her  for  so  long,  mutely  reiterating  '  17,' 
began  to  open,  as  though  it  had  come  to  life. 
'  A  big  white  waistcoat,'  said  Sheila's  chattering 
brain.  Like  a  silly  flat  face  it  moved  aside 
to  make  room  for  something  that  with  funereal 
step  passed  out  :  a  bent  figure  in  black  tight- 
fitting  bodice  and  white  lace  cap.  Aunt 
Hester's  right  hand  drew  the  door  to  behind 
her,  and  with  an  abrupt  resolute  gesture  she 
flung  up  her  head  and  stood,  regally  tall,  a 
black  figure  of  doom  framed  in  the  white  door- 
way. In  a  silence  like  death  itself  the  eyes 
of  these  two  stricken  creatures  met. 

That  meeting  of  eyes  was  an  icy  blast  in  the 
green  twilit  corridor.  It  froze  the  running 
water  of  Sheila's  thought  and  made  her  catch 
her  breath.  Gradually,  while  they  looked  at 
each  other,  Aunt  Hester  crumpled  and  shrank 
again  to  the  meagre  dimensions  of  a  bent  old 
woman  ;  she  stumbled  forward  to  meet  her 
niece  with  feebly  gesticulating  arms.  The 
next  morning  she  had  answered  the  mute 
question  of  Sheila's  eyes  and  was  enfolding  her 
rigid  passive  body. 

The  single  word  she  saw  forming  on  her 
aunt's  lips  released  the  locked  flow  of  Sheila's 

S.E.  o 


i94        THE     HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

thought.  Her  mind  became  once  more  almost 
insanely  active.  One  dry  gasp  escaped  her, 
and  no  other  sound.  The  springs  of  pity  were 
barren  in  her  :  this  sobbing  woman  was  a 
stranger.  Helena  was  dead.  She  turned  away 
from  her  aunt  and  went  slowly  back  into  the 
bedroom.  Helena  was  dead.  '  Very  well,' 
said  Sheila's  mind,  and  she,  ignoring  that, 
suddenly  thought  that  if  God  were  to  appear 
to  her  at  that  moment  she  would  strike  him 
with  her  hand.  And  that  would  have  been 
how  silly  !  He  would  only  laugh.  Helena 
was  dead.  She  stared,  dry-eyed,  out  of  the 
window  and  saw  the  sun  newly  risen  in  his 
glory.  The  leaves  of  the  acacia  were  a  luminous 
green  ;  a  thrush  in  its  branches  poured  out 
bubbling  melody.  All  the  universe  was  alive 
with  a  stabbing  futile  beauty.  Helena  was 
dead. 

No  tears  came  to  release  the  pent  grief. 
Why  was  that  ?  '  Like  the  woman  in  the 
poem,'  muttered  that  mental  chatterbox  and 
began  iterating  '  Home  they  brought  her 
warrior  dead.  Home  they  brought  her  warrior 
dead.'  It  was  in  a  little  red  book.  '  Rose  a 
nurse  of  ninety  years.'  Was  it  ninety  or 
eighty  ?  And  Rose  was  a  girl's  name,  but  it 
wasn't  the  nurse's  name.  Rose  a  nurse.  A 
nurse  rose.  Rise,  rose,  risen.  And  on  the 


THE     HOUSE    AT     MAADI 


195 


third  day  he  rose  again  from  the  dead.  Who 
was  it  did  that  ?  The  little  red  book  had  an 
odd  name  on  its  cover  .  .  .  And  suddenly 
Helena  came  before  her,  alive,  alive,  and  happy 
as  she  had  always  been.  What  nonsense. 
Helena  was  dead.  .  .  .  Like  a  city  besieged 
Sheila  fought  against  the  cruel  memories  that 
invaded  her. 

Aunt  Hester  came  with  food  on  a  tray,  and 
urged  her  to  try  to  eat  something,  just  a  morsel, 
just  a  sip.  What  was  the  good  of  it  all  ? 
And  the  voice  of  Aunt  Hester  stayed  with  her 
interpolating  dull  remarks  about  funerals, 
trains,  Penlington,  nice  to  be  home  again,  poor 
dear  mother,  make  a  friend  of  Jesus,  try  not 
to  brood,  into  Sheila's  busy  thought.  But 
Sheila  pushed  them  all  from  her.  She  was 
eager  to  brood.  Without  brooding,  life  was 
empty  :  a  dry  husk.  She  surrendered  herself 
now,  opened  her  heart  to  that  host  of  memories  : 
they  tumbled  in,  a  looting  rabble.  She  lived 
over  and  over  again  her  days  with  Helena  : 
her  thought  sped  through  the  years  ever  more 
quickly,  until  in  a  sickening  rush  it  reached 
the  dead  wall  of  the  present.  Helena  was 
dead.  God  had  stupidly  killed  her.  And 
would  they  have  to  try  to  sing  a  hymn  about — 
what  was  it  ? — each  within  his  narrow  bed, 
safe  home  at  last,  Jesu's  breast,  blend  the  living 


196        THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

with  the  dead  .  .  .  Aunt  Hester  was  back 
again,  urging  her  to  cry.  '  You  do  the  cry- 
ing, aunt.'  Had  she  said  that  or  only  thought 
it  ?  She  wished  Aunt  Hester  would  go  away 
with  her  talk  of  the  kind  nurse,  just  a  sip  or 
two,  quite  a  peaceful  passing  dear,  try  to  pray, 
home  again  soon,  take  her  with  us.  What  was 
the  sense  in  saying  '  take  her  with  us  '  when 
Helena  was  dead  ?  There  was  nothing  to 
take  home.  There  was  nothing  to  take  home 
except  what  was  in  the  white  room,  number 
seventeen.  They'd  put  it  in  a  box  .  .  .  not 
Helena  ;  Helena  was  gone  away  .  .  .  Sheila 
was  jealous  of  anything  that  came  to  thrust 
itself  between  her  and  her  memories  ;  but  she 
could  not  still  the  almost  febrile  activity  of  her 
aching  brain  :  her  random  thoughts  danced 
on  dizzily  over  the  bottomless  black  pit. 

Back  in  the  house  at  Penlington.  A  locked 
room  now,  with  It,  shut  up  in  a  shiny  coffin, 
on  trestles.  And  to-day,  at  noon,  It  was  to 
be  taken  away. 

Noon.  The  long-tailed  black  horses 
trampled  on  Sheila's  heart.  Six  men  entered 
the  house  and  mounted  the  stairs — tramp, 
tramp,  tramp — and  stopped.  .  .  .  They 
returned  more  slowly,  their  breathing  more 
noisy,  their  footsteps  less  regular.  Sheila 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        197 

turned  her  face  from  the  window  lest  she  should 
find  horror  made  visible. 

She  stood  in  the  stuffy  room,  waiting  for 
the  others  to  come  downstairs.  Although  the 
windows  were  wide  open  the  atmosphere  was 
stiflingly  hot.  The  drowsy  hum  in  which 
all  summer  sounds  were  merged  floated  in 
oppressively,  and  the  clock's  ticking  was  a 
burden. 

She  was  very  uncomfortable  and  wretched 
in  her  black  clothes  ;  her  gloved  hands  per- 
spired. She  caught  sight,  through  the  trees 
in  the  garden,  of  the  waiting  carriage.  .  .  . 
Why  were  all  these  things  necessary  ? 

Uncle  Peter  came  downstairs,  followed  by 
Aunt  Hester  and  a  school  chum  of  Helena's. 
Other  draped  figures  came,  including  a  strange 
girl-cousin  with  her  husband  ;  but  none  was 
of  the  slightest  consequence. 

In  the  crawling  carriage  now  ;  and  idiot 
birds  were  singing  happily  outside.  Sunshine, 
dusty  roads,  blue  cloudless  sky,  hot  air,  silly 
singing  birds,  the  window-fittings  in  the  car- 
riage, Uncle  Peter  with  his  expanse  of  waist- 
coat and  great  gold  chain  and  perspiring  face, 
the  split  in  the  third  finger  of  her  black  glove, 
the  ill-repressed  sniffling  of  the  cousin,  a  scratch 
in  the  paint  over  Uncle  Peter's  head,  the  houses 
and  hedges  moving  slowly  past  them,  people 


198        THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

at  the  side  of  the  road  with  raised  hats,  a  team 
of  cricketers  in  a  distant  field  and  the  gleam 
of  their  white  flannels  in  the  sunlight  :  of  all 
these  things  she  was  conscious,  and  of  the 
black  pit,  Helena  dead,  and  the  slow  miserable 
rumble  of  wheels. 

She  wondered  why  God  would  not  speak  to 
her.  A  new  hope  flickered.  She  would  listen 
for  His  voice,  that  still  small  voice  in  the  soul. 
But  the  only  voice  she  heard,  whether  within 
or  without,  was  Uncle  Peter's.  '  It  really  is 
hot,'  he  said  conversationally,  as  they  got  out 
of  the  carriage. 

And  now  added  to  the  horror  and  the  heat 
was  the  sight  of  the  coffin  being  borne  into 
that  squat  evil  building,  that  house  of  death, 
the  cemetery  chapel,  and,  presently,  a  dull 
droning  voice  in  melancholy  monotone  : 

'  In  the  morning  it  is  green  and  groweth  up  ; 
but  in  the  evening  it  is  cut  down,  dried  up  and 
withered.  For  when  thou  art  angry  all  our  days 
are  gone ;  we  bring  our  years  to  an  end  as  it 
were  a  tale  that  is  told.  The  days  of  our  years 
are  three  score  years  and  ten? 

And  Sheila,  a  tiny  girl  again,  was  having 
happy  romps  with  Helena  in  a  garden  full  of 
flowers  and  sunshine.  Helena  was  clapping 
her  hands  and  laughing  ;  Helena  was  lifting 
her,  shoulder-high,  to  kiss  a  very  tall  rose  that 


THE     HOUSE    AT    MAADI         199 

was  really  a  princess  imprisoned  by  black 
magic.  .  .  ,  And  then  she  was  going  to 
Helena  for  her  music  lesson,  ^nd  Helena  pre- 
tended she  was  just  an  ordinary  pupil  (for  that 
was  part  of  the  game)  named  Linda  Smith. 
'  And  what  are  you  going  to  play  this  after- 
noon, Linda  ?  '  .  .  . 

'  The  last  enemy  that  shall  be  destroyed  is 
death.' 

The  man  was  still  there,  the  long-faced 
cadaverous  man  droning  out  his  words.  And 
now  they  were  out  again  in  the  scorching  sun, 
standing,  the  men  bare-headed,  round  an  open 
grave.  She  heard  the  women  sobbing  ;  she 
saw  Uncle  Peter  with  bent  head,  a  great  red 
boil  peeping  over  his  collar  from  the  pink  folds 
of  neck.  And  now  the  coffin  was  being  low- 
ered. Something  seemed  to  clutch  her  by  the 
throat  ;  but  the  tears  would  not  come. 

'  For  as  much  as  it  hath  pleased  Almighty  God 
of  His  great  mercy  .  .  .' 

*  Come  along,  dear,'  said  Aunt  Hester,  taking 
her  arm.  And  Sheila,  waking  as  from  an  evil 
dream,  saw  compassion  looking  out  of  the  eyes 
of  Uncle  Peter.  She  was  the  centre  of  this 
tragedy.  For  an  instant  she  luxuriated  in  the 
emotion  of  her  position  ;  enjoyed  the  accession 
of  self-importance  ;  rolled  mourning  like  syrup 
on  her  tongue.  She  caught  herself  in  the 


200        THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

act  ;    and  her  heart  turned  sour  and  said  to 
her,  '  How  hateful  you  are  1  ' 


Helena's  death  is  of  signal  importance  in 
the  history  of  Sheila  because  it  was  the  occasion 
of  her  first  serious  quarrel  with  God.  And 
though,  as  the  years  went  on,  she  did  in  a 
measure  make  it  up  with  Him,  the  reconcilia- 
tion was  never  complete.  She  never  ceased, 
from  that  day,  to  relish  Mr.  Hardy's  gestures 
of  contempt  for  the  President  of  the  Immortals. 
The  name  of  God,  none  the  less,  resumed 
something  of  its  old  majesty.  She  depersonal- 
ized Him,  disembodied  Him,  transmuted  Him 
from  solid  substance  into  a  kind  of  immanent 
gas,  a  presence  that  disturbed  her  with  the 
sense  of  elevated  thoughts.  She  dabbled  in 
the  literature  of  popular  mysticism,  deriving 
comfort  from  its  comfortable  abstract  phrases, 
its  Cosmic  Urges,  its  Universal  Self.  She 
read  a  text-book  on  Hegel  ;  and  the  Hegelian 
paradox,  '  Being  and  not-being  are  identical,' 
she  rolled  on  her  tongue  until  it  assumed  the 
flavour  of  truism.  While  she  was  on  the  crest 
of  this  enthusiasm  Kay  Wilton  came,  to  renew 
the  promise  of  a  transcendental  happiness. 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        201 

But  let  us  turn  the  pages  more  quickly  until 
we  come  upon  a  Sheila  of  nineteen  years,  with 
the  Kay  adventure  past  but  still  fresh  in  her 
mind.  With  her  school-friend  Hypatia  Fair- 
field  she  sat  in  a  coign  of  the  cliff  at  Selborne 
and  gazed  musingly  at  sea  and  sky.  Sheila 
was  too  busy  with  her  dream  to  be  very  inter- 
ested in  Hypatia's  talk  about  her  clever  brother 
who  had  just  gone  to  Cambridge  :  his  pro- 
found knowledge  of  history,  his  intellectual 
honesty,  and  his  sarcasm  poured  so  liberally 
on  a  certain  Paley  whose  Evidences  of  Chris- 
tianity he  had  been  forced  to  study  for  the  Little 
Go.  Slightly  bored  by  the  recital  of  this 
brother's  deeds  and  sayings,  Sheila  began  a 
little  to  scorn  her  friend's  sisterly  partiality. 
Even  the  severe,  the  rational,  the  proudly 
unconventional  Hypatia  was  not  immune  from 
that  human  weakness. 

'  Have  you  ever  liked  anybody  very  much, 
Hypatia  ?  ' 

'  Liked  anyone  ? ' 

'  A  boy,  I  mean.' 

'  Why,  of  course,  Edward ' 

'  Oh,  not  your  brother.'  Sheila  waved  an 
impatient  hand.  '  Have  you  never  been  .  .  .' 

'  Do  you  mean  in  love  ? '  asked  Hypatia,  in 
some  surprise. 

'  Well,  yes,  in  love.' 


202        THE     HOUSE    AT     MAADI 

'  No.'  Hypatia  shook  her  head,  firmly,  but 
without  the  scorn  that  Sheila  had  half  expected 
to  see.  '  I  never  have.  Why  do  you  ask  ? ' 

*  Oh,  I  just  wondered.' 

For  a  moment  Hypatia  contemplated  a  dis- 
tant ship.  '  Look  at  the  sun  on  that  sail,'  she 
said.  ...  *  Have  you  ever  been  ?  ' 

Sheila  nodded,  scrutinizing  closely  a  smooth 
white  stone  she  had  dug  up  with  her  fingers 
from  the  chalky  soil. 

'  Yes.' 

'  Did  he  know  ?  ' 

'  Yes.  There  was  a  kind  of  engagement. 
It  was  while  I  was  at  St.  Margaret's.' 

'  Do  you  mean  it's  over  now  ? ' 

Sheila  began  trying  to  explain  everything. 
The  effort  took  her  away  for  a  moment  to  the 
first  dim  beginnings  of  love,  four  or  five  years 
back,  and  then  brought  her  swiftly  to  the  greater 
glory  and  deeper  pain  of  the  year  just  gone. 
Hypatia  listened  with  quiet  attention  to  the 
rambling,  shy,  and  inadequate  narration. 

*  It  was  at  a  Band  of  Hope  that  I  first  saw 
him,'  began  Sheila. 

'  Whatever  made  you  go  to  a  Band  of  Hope  ? ' 
asked  Hypatia. 

*  I  had  a  friend,  Sophie  Dewick.     She  used 
to  go.     And  they  used  to  have  lantern  lectures 
and  concerts  and  things.     It  wasn't  bad.' 


THE     HOUSE     AT    MAADI         203 

The  lantern  slides  had  been  a  disappointment, 
being  concerned  almost  entirely  with  graphical 
statistics  about  alcohol.  The  only  picture 
worth  while  was  that  of  a  flea,  magnified  some 
thousandfold,  happily  reminiscent  of  the  New 
Geology  Reader  and  of  Poe's  stories.  This  was 
an  inadequate  sugar  coating  to  the  pill  of 
chemical  analysis.  But  Mr.  Beak  made  every- 
thing worth  while — Mr.  Beak,  with  spare 
figure,  polished  pate,  and  black  bushy  eye- 
brows. When  he  rose,  lifting  his  hand  for 
silence  in  order  that  he  might  announce  '  Hymn 
Number  twenty-thwee — the  twenty-third 
hymn,'  he  seemed  like  a  military  commander 
admitting  defeat  but  determined  not  to  sur- 
render ;  he  seemed,  to  himself  perhaps  as  to 
his  sympathizers,  the  last  champion  of  sobriety 
in  a  drunken  world.  This  sense  of  desperate 
purpose  pervaded  the  whole  proceedings  of 
which  Mr.  Beak  had  the  conducting  :  the 
religious  service  had  always  this  invincible  air 
of  being  held  round  an  open  grave — the  open 
grave  of  one  who,  without  doubt,  had  sipped 
claret-cup  at  some  festival  in  his  youth  and  in 
riper  years  had  taken  to  wife-beating,  smoking, 
swearing,  and  the  other  vices  incidental  to 
dipsomania.  Mrs.  Beak,  plump,  rosy,  and 
smiling,  chatted  pleasantly  to  every  one  and 
made  optimistic  secretarial  announcements. 


204        THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

1  And  that  was  where  I  met  him,'  Sheila 
told  Hypatia. 

'  Did  you  lose  your  heart  at  once  ?  ' 

*  Not  a  bit.  There  was  something  about 
him  :  I  don't  know  how  to  express  it — a  sort 
of  mute  poetry  in  his  face.  But  I  didn't  really 
give  a  thought  to  him  then.  He  seemed  a 
nice  boy  ;  nothing  more.' 

Later  she  discovered  that  he  had  sad  grey 
eyes,  a  submissive  mouth,  untidy  light  brown 
hair.  He  wore  his  high  double  collar  and  his 
black  tie  with  an  incongruous  effect,  like  a 
cherub  masquerading  as  a  clerk.  Sheila's 
interest  in  Kay,  her  urgent  desire  to  protect 
him,  led  her  into  strange  places  ;  for  he  was  a 
youth  of  inscrutable  impulses.  The  Band  of 
Hope  was  good  fun  ;  and  to  accept  sometimes 
the  hospitality  of  Sophie's  pew  in  a  strange 
chapel  full  of  green  gloom  was  a  defection 
from  Wesleyanism  that  Aunt  Hester  found  it 
easy  to  forgive  :  the  easier  when  she  reflected 
that  it  was  a  further  step  from  the  dreaded 
Popery.  But  the  Seven  Days'  Mission  was 
something  that  taxed  Sheila  heavily.  A  new 
humility  was  growing  upon  her  ;  the  beatific 
vision  of  Kay  drew  her  with  a  power  she  found 
irresistible.  So  innocent,  so  shy  a  boy,  so 
unaware  of  his  own  attractiveness,  he  seemed 
to  be  crying  out  for  sympathy.  She  read  an 


THE    HOUSE    AT     MAADI        205 

unspoken  appeal  in  his  big  eyes  ;  she  dis- 
covered a  pathos  of  inexpressiveness  in  his 
lame  confused  speeches.  That  he  admired  her 
was  a  gradual  revelation  that  at  first  she  hardly 
dared  to  face  :  that  she  longed  to  know  him 
and  to  be  his  friend  she  admitted  to  herself 
at  once  with  her  usual  candour.  Why  then 
did  this  young  prince,  this  strayed  denizen  of 
the  celestial  meads,  choose  such  odd  ways  of 
spending  his  time  ?  What  force  impelled  him 
to  attend  that  curious  orgy  of  emotion,  the 
Seven  Days'  Mission  ?  She  found  the  riddle 
hard  to  read.  Humbly  and  patiently  she  set 
herself  the  task  of  trying  to  understand  these 
religious  fervours. 

Sheila  and  Kay  talked  rarely,  and  never  of 
matters  more  deep  than  the  Band  of  Hope, 
Pickwick  Papers,  the  weather,  the  oddities  of 
common  acquaintances,  and  the  mock-tragedy 
in  blank  verse  that  Clive  Bunter  had  written 
for  the  Social  Evening.  The  rehearsals  for 
this  play  drew  them  together  every  Tuesday 
for  four  weeks  ;  but  the  play  was  never  pre- 
sented to  the  public,  for  the  dress-rehearsal 
was  attended  by  Mr.  Beak  and  Mr.  Turley, 
and  these  gentlemen,  deacons  both,  were  seized 
with  alarm  at  the  prospect  of  theatricals,  how- 
ever innocuous,  taking  place  in  a  lecture-hall 
so  near  the  sacred  precincts  of  the  church. 


206        THE     HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

Gloomily  the  actors  dispersed  to  their  several 
homes. 

*  What  rot  it  is  ! '  said  Kay. 

*  But  they  were  awully  funny,    those  two,' 
Sheila   remarked.     'People    so    comic    must 
have  a  spark  of  goodness  in  them  somewhere.' 

*  Goodness  ! '   said  Clive  Bunter,    *  Gallons 
and  gallons  of  it.    It  ought  to  be  put  a  stop  to, 
this  monopoly  of  goodness.     But  as  for  brains 
— all  the  brains  in  the  Band  of  Hope  wouldn't 
fill  a  pin's  head.' 

'  You're  not  including  your  own,  are  you  ? ' 
asked  Kay. 

Sheila,  who  considered  Clive  rather  con- 
ceited, laughed  with  relish.  She  was  at  some 
pains  to  show  her  appreciation.  Perhaps  it 
was  this  that  encouraged  Kay  to  ask,  when, 
later,  she  turned  to  leave  the  others  :  '  May 
I  come  a  little  way  with  you  ?  ' 

She  said  '  Please  do,'  and  pointedly  refrained 
from  calling  out  '  Good  night '  to  Sophie,  who 
was  walking  some  yards  ahead  with  the  Hero 
of  the  doomed  play,  a  gentleman  by  whom  of 
late  she  had  been  rather  engrossed. 

Sheila  and  Kay  walked  for  a  while  in  silence 
down  a  broad  avenue  of  trees  bordered  on  one 
side  by  dark  woods,  and  on  the  other  by  scat- 
tered houses.  A  yellow  strip  of  moon  hung, 
glowing  in  the  blue,  above  the  woods, 


THE     HOUSE    AT    MAADI        207 

She  began  telling  him  that  she  was  to  be 
sent  away  to  St.  Margaret's,  a  school  in  Sel- 
borne;  that  the  term  was  thirteen  weeks  long  ; 
and  that  her  aunt  talked  of  going  to  live  in 
Selborne  permanently.  This  meant  that  she 
and  Kay  might  never  meet  again. 

Kay  surveyed  this  prospect  dismally.  They 
discussed  it  in  elaborately  casual  tones.  And 
all  the  while  she  was  thinking  how  delicious 
were  the  stillness  and  the  moonlight  and  this 
unspoken  love.  Even  the  impending  separa- 
tion was  beautiful,  tragic,  uplifting.  When  at 
his  suggestion  they  sat  down  on  a  borough 
council  seat  facing  the  woods,  she  caught  her 
breath  and  trembled  at  the  exquisite  beauty  of 
his  shy  avoidance  of  her  eyes. 

*  Frightfully  thick  those  woods  are,'  he 
said. 

But  that  was  said  to  gain  time,  she  knew. 
A  feeling  almost  of  fear  came  over  her.  He 
was  going  to  try  to  put  into  words  this  wonder- 
ful, this  unutterable  love  ...  If  only  it 
could  remain  unspoken,  and  they  sit  here  for 
ever  in  silence  ! 

'  I  say,  Sheila,'  he  burst  out.  *  I  wish  you 
weren't  going  !  ' 

'  Do  you  ?  '  She  stared  at  the  dark  gravel 
path. 

'  Dash  it  all — I'm  awfully  fond  of  you.' 


208        THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

She  turned  to  him  with  flushed  cheeks  and 
fluttering  heart,  trying  to  speak. 

*  I  think  ...   I  think  you're  a  perfect  dear,' 
she  said.     '  Oh,  Kay  !  ' 

His  eyes  filled  with  light.  Rather  awkwardly 
he  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

They  kissed  shyly,  hesitatingly,  as  though 
afraid  lest  by  doing  so  they  should  break  the 
spell  of  beauty  that  bound  them. 

Hypatia  listened,  slightly  frowning. 
'  After  that  dress-rehearsal,'  said  Sheila,  *  he 
told  me.' 

'  Told  you  ?  ' 

*  Told  me  that  he  ...  liked  me.     I  knew 
before,  but  he  told  me  then.' 

Her  voice  died  away  into  silence. 

'  Nothing  can  ever  come  near  that,'  she  said, 
in  a  low  tone.  '  Nothing,  ever.' 

She  resumed  her  story  after  a  pregnant 
silence.  The  sound  of  the  sea  soothed  her 
with  its  rhythm. 

*  A  few  days  afterwards  I  came  to  St.  Mar- 
garet's.    And  then  .  .  .' 

She  stopped  speaking.  Hypatia  looked  up 
to  find  her  gaze  fixed  upon  the  horizon. 

'  Well  ?  '  said  Hypatia  gently,  after  a  long 
pause.  '  Did  he  forget  all  about  you  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort  ?  ' 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        209 

'  No,'  answered  Sheila,  '  he  didn't  forget. 
He  kept  writing  me  letters.' 

4  Why,  of  course  !  Didn't  you  want  him 
to  ?  '  .  .  . 

The  first  letter  made  her  eyes  moist  with 
tenderness  ;  but  every  one  that  followed  came 
with  a  whisper  of  impending  tragedy.  He 
wrote  always  of  the  church,  of  the  office,  of  the 
garden,  of  the  Band  of  Hope  :  round  these 
things  his  immortal  soul  revolved. 

Next  Sunday  fortnight  I  am  to  give  a  paper  at  the  Young 
People's  Bible  Class.  Mr.  Dewick  asked  me  if  I  would 
and  he  said  he  would  be  very  pleased  if  I  would  say  yes  and 
I  could  not  very  well  get  out  of  it  as  I  had  no  excuse  ready. 
I  have  chosen  for  my  subject  Sunday  Observance ;  it  is  a 
good  subject  but  I  find  it  hard  to  put  many  thoughts  down 
on  paper  about  it.  I  will  write  and  tell  you  how  I  get  on. 
We  had  a  really  broad-minded  sermon  last  Sunday  on  the 
text  '  By  their  fruits  ye  shall  know  them,'  it  upset  some  of 
the  very  strict  people  I  fancy  but  Mr.  Dewick  liked  it  and 
so  did  I.  The  preacher,  whose  name  I  forget,  he  was  from 
Barnet,  said  that  there  had  been  some  quite  good  atheists, 
but  I  thought  he  took  a  very  extreme  view  when  he  said 
that  some  atheists  lived  much  better  lives  than  the  average 
Christian.  It  seemed  to  me  that  he  put  that  bit  in  just  so  as 
to  sound  paradoxical  and  daring.  Father  has  been  very 
busy  in  the  garden,  pruning  his  roses,  as  the  weather  has 
greatly  improved  these  kst  few  days.  There  is  a  new  fellow 
now  at  the  office,  but  I  cannot  say  I  like  him  much,  he  is  a 
bit  of  a  rough  diamond ;  rough  anyhow,  I  am  not  so  sure 
about  the  diamond.  I  think  he  drinks  and  he  certainly  uses 

S.E.  p 


210        THE     HOUSE    AT     MAADI 

bad  language,  but  if  one  tells  him  of  it  he  only  gets  more 
offensive.  By  the  by,  isn't  it  funny  that  you  should  be  still 
at  school  while  I'm  at  business  when  we  are  both  seventeen 
and  within  a  few  months  of  each  other  ? 

Passages  like  this  frightened  Sheila  by 
indicating  a  gulf  of  mental  disparity  fixed 
between  Kay  and  her.  *  It's  only  superficial,' 
whispered  her  love.  *  He's  not  like  that 
really.  He's  not  a  good  letter-writer  :  that's 
all.'  And  she  tried  to  silence  her  own  critical 
spirit  with  tender  memories  of  his  wooing. 
'  Can  love  be  scared  away  by  a  bad  literary 
style  ? '  she  asked  herself.  But  her  mind 
worked  on  against  her  :  by  no  manner  of 
violence  could  she  prevent  its  probing  into  the 
substance  of  Kay's  frequent  letters.  In  spite 
of  her  protests  it  coined  for  her  a  new  word, 
Kayesque,  to  express  a  certain  indefinable 
quality,  a  taint,  manifest  in  his  way  of  think- 
ing and  writing.  Indefinable  or  not,  it  was 
undefined,  for  she  dared  not  define  it.  To 
have  confessed  even  to  herself  that  it  meant 
complacency,  mediocrity,  total  absorption  in 
the  commonplace,  would  have  precipitated 
disaster. 

And  to  quicken  her  faculty  for  detecting 
the  Kayesque  there  was  the  constant  com- 
panionship of  Hypatia  Fairfield.  From  the 
moment  when  Sheila  woke,  one  midnight,  to 


THE     HOUSE    AT    MAADI        211 

find  Hypatia  sitting  up  in  bed  reading  by 
candlelight  The  City  of  Dreadful  Night  the  two 
girls  were  fast  friends.  This  was  but  one  book 
from  the  secret  hoard  of  five  that  Hypatia 
discovered  to  Sheila  on  that  exciting  night. 
She  found  the  school  library  altogether  too 
prim,  too  like  Miss  Fry  the  head,  to  suit  her 
taste. 

1  They  starve  you  here,  don't  they  ?  '  she 
said,  opening  her  locker  and  exhibiting  her 
treasures  one  by  one. 

Each  one  had  a  brown-paper  cover  bearing 
in  large  block  letters  a  title  specially  designed 
to  propitiate  the  eye  of  Authority,  should 
Authority  happen  to  come  round  some  day 
with  a  master-key.  Foxe's  Book  of  Martyrs 
clothed  with  righteousness  the  impious  pages 
of  Spencer's  First  Principles,  and  The  Life  of 
Livingstone  invested  Monte  Cristo  with  a 
garb  of  sanctity.  Shelley  beat  his  luminous 
wings  behind  the  broad  back  of  Robinson 
Crusoe. 

*  It's  a  pity  Miss  Fry  is  such  a  frump,'  said 
Sheila,  when  they  had  got  into  their  beds  and 
Hypatia  had  blown  the  light  out. 

Hypatia  agreed.  '  I'm  awfully  glad  you 
woke  up.  We  might  never  have  got  to  know 
each  other  if  you  hadn't  caught  me  reading.' 

*  I    don't    expect    we    should,'    responded 


212        THE     HOUSE    AT     MAADI 

Sheila,  glowing  with  the  excitement  of  a  new 
friendship. 

*  I  was  absolutely  isolated,'   Hypatia  said. 
*  Oh,  why  ever  didn't  you  come  to  St.  Mar- 
garet's before  ?  ' 

Sheila  laughed.  *  I  would  have  done  it  if 
I'd  known,  perhaps.  And  yet  I  was  sorry  to 
leave  my  other  school.' 

'  Was  it  decent  there  ?  ' 

'  Well,  they  didn't  teach  us  much,  but  it 
was  very  comfortable  and  homelike.  I'd 
practically  grown  up  there.  It  was  a  day 
school.  They  didn't  worry  me  much.  Two 
or  three  of  us  in  the  Sixth  used  to  spend  a  lot 
of  our  school  hours  producing  a  school  mag.' 

*  Unofficial,  I  suppose  ?  ' 

'  Very.  We  wrote  it  out  by  hand  and 
handed  it  round.' 

'  Did  you  write  stories,  or  what  ? ' 

'  Oh,  things,  you  know,'  said  Sheila.  '  It 
was  only  a  lark.  A  kind  of  skit  on  the  official 
journal.' 

'  They're  too  ladylike  here  for  anything 
so  vulgar  as  journalism,'  complained  Hypatia 
to  the  darkness. 

'  I  expect  so.' 

'  Miss  Fry  with  her  Ministering  Children  !  ' 
added  Hypatia  scornfully.  ...  'By  the  way, 
are  you  church,  chapel,  or  what  ? ' 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        213 

'  The  last,'  said  Sheila.  *  I'm  rather  keen 
on  Edward  Carpenter  just  now.  Have  you 
read  him  ?  ' 

'  Yes.  Whitman  and  water,'  replied  Hypa- 
tia.  '  I'm  an  agnostic  personally.  So  are  my 
people.' 

'  Your  people  too  !  '  exclaimed  Sheila.  '  I 
thought  one's  people  were  always  ortho- 
dox.' 

Hypatia  laughed.     '  Are  you  Irish  ? ' 

'  Part  of  me  is.' 

4  The  voice  part,'  said  Hypatia. 

'  Mother  was  Irish,  and  father  had  some 
Irish  blood — -just  a  drop  or  two.' 

*  Your  voice  is  lovely.' 

Sheila  heard  Hypatia's  bed  creak,  and  then 
the  sound  of  a  match  being  struck.  Hypatia 
bent  over  her. 

'  And  you've  Irish  eyes  too,'  she  said.  The 
match  flickered  out,  and  she  went  back  to 
her  bed.  *  They're  blue.  Blue  eyes  and  dark 
hair.' 

She  struck  off  at  a  tangent. 

'  You'll  like  Spencer.  He  makes  your 
brain  simmer.  I  said  that  before,  didn't  I  ? 
Especially  on  the  Unknowable.  Funny,  some 
people  think  there's  nothing  unknowable.' 

'  Beautiful  people,'  said  Sheila.  '  The  salt 
of  the  earth.  You'd  think,  to  hear  them  talk, 


214        THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

that  they  were  present  at  the  Creation  of  the 
world  taking  shorthand  notes.' 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  minutes. 

'  I  believe  I'm  too  excited  to  sleep,'  said 
Sheila  presently.  '  But  I  suppose  we  ought 
to.  .  .  .' 

For  weeks  together,  in  defiance  of  Kay's 
letters,  Sheila  abandoned  herself  to  her  dream 
of  love,  and  the  Kay  of  her  imagination  was  a 
lover  beyond  criticism.  It  was  become  an 
article  of  her  faith  that  it  was  this  perfect  lover, 
not  the  author  of  the  letters,  whom  she  would 
meet  again  on  her  return  from  school.  Him 
she  had  indeed  seen  on  the  night  of  their  love's 
visible  flowering.  They  had  but  to  be  together 
again,  and  she  would  know  him  for  what  he 
was,  master  of  a  speech  more  eloquent  than 
words.  And  while  she  dreamed  of  this  blissful 
reunion  a  letter  came  that  rent  her  heart. 

DARLING  SHEILA. — Do  not  be  surprised  if  I  don't  write 
for  several  days.     Dad  died  suddenly  yesterday. 

Your  loving  KAY. 

She  recalled  Helena's  death,  re-living  some  of 
that  agony  ;  and  compassion  for  Kay  wrung 
bitter  tears  from  her.  Into  her  letter  she 
poured  a  torrent  of  love  and  pity  and  passionate 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        215 

protest.  She  yearned  for  the  moment  when 
she  would  see  him  face  to  face  and  offer  for  his 
comfort  the  balm  of  her  lips. 


'  You  see,'  explained  Sheila,  '  I  couldn't  tell 
you  then,  Hypatia.  It  would  have  been 
disloyal.  I  didn't  admit  even  to  myself  that 
there  was  anything  to  spoil  our  happiness.  I 
thought  that  as  soon  as  I  saw  him  again,  and 
touched  him,  that  horrible  doubt  would 
vanish.' 

'  And  didn't  it  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  for  a  moment  or  two.  Then  it  came 
back  .  .  .  and  grew  and  grew  ...  to  a  hateful 
certainty.' 

'  Yes  ?  ' 

'  The  separation  had  lasted  for  the  best  part 
of  a  year,  because  I  didn't  go  home  for  the 
long  summer  holiday  :  Auntie  came  here 
instead.  And  during  that  time  we'd  both 
developed,  he  and  I.' 

'  He  was  more  Kayesque  than  ever  ? ' 

Sheila  flinched. 

'  Oh,  don't  remind  me  of  that  detestable 
invention  of  mine,'  she  begged  ...  *  He'd 
changed — oh,  incredibly  !  Even  his  appear- 
ance. There  were  still  wonderful  moments — 
sometimes  when  the  light  fell  on  his  hair  .  .  . 


216        THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

and  he  was  slightly  freckled,  you  know,'  she 
added. 

'  But  he  was  changed.' 

'  He  was  just  like  his  letters.  And  when 
he  was  saying  certain  things — stuffy  things — 
he  even  looked  like  his  letters,' 

'  And  the  mute  poetry  ? '  asked  Hypatia 
presently. 

Sheila  stared  miserably  at  her  own  feet. 

'  I  don't  know  what  became  of  that,'  she 
confessed.  '  It  was  there,  you  know,'  she 
added,  seeing  a  gentle  incredulous  smile  flit 
over  her  friend's  face.  '  Hypatia,  it  was, 
really.  I  saw  it.' 

'  And  then '  suggested  Hypatia  after  a 

silence. 

'  Well,  as  soon  as  I  was  certain,'  said  Sheila 
simply,  '  I  had  to  tell  him,  of  course.' 

*  That  it  was  hopeless  ?  ' 

Sheila  nodded. 

'  We  lived  in  different  worlds  .  .  .  And  of 
course  he  didn't  understand.' 

'  No,'  said  Hypatia.  '  He  wouldn't.  That 
was  the  whole  tragedy,  wasn't  it  ? ' 

1  He  thought — '  Sheila  began,  with  a  little 
bitter  laugh  .  .  .  then  stopped,  and  looked  at 
Hypatia  with  pain  in  her  eyes.  '  He  thought 
I  had  stopped  caring,  Hypatia  !  ' 

She  rose  to  her  feet. 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        217 

'  It  must  be  getting  on  for  teatime,'  she  said. 
'  Shall  we  go  ?  ' 


Seven  years  later,  on  the  platform  of  Penny's 
Heath  station,  Sheila  discovered  a  new  Hypatia 
Fairfield  :  tall,  dark,  severe,  with  thoughtful 
eyes  and  aggressive  chin  ;  by  everyday  stan- 
dards a  plain  young  woman,  but  redeemed  from 
unattractiveness  by  an  air  of  absorbed  interest 
in  some  vision  of  her  own.  Since  leaving 
school  the  two  girls  had  exchanged  letters  of 
prodigious  length.  Once  or  twice  they  had 
visited  each  other's  homes,  but  these  visits 
had  provided  an  intercourse  less  intimate, 
less  real,  than  that  of  their  letters.  Into  the 
bubbling  pot  of  that  correspondence  was 
poured  all  the  raw  egoism,  all  the  shy  solemn 
discoveries,  of  two  active  minds  passing  through 
the  adventure  of  adolescence.  Their  know- 
ledge of  each  other  at  school  had  been  a  mere 
passing  acquaintanceship  compared  with  this 
new  intimacy  that  only  distance  and  the  postal 
service  had  made  possible. 

Recently  they  had  begun  to  drift  apart. 
Aunt  Hester's  disapproval  of  normal  life  made 
the  house  at  Penlington  something  of  a  prison  ; 
Aunt  Hester's  friends  were  anaemic,  uncon- 
genial. *  Nothing  ever  happens  to  me,'  she 


2i8        THE     HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

said  to  herself.  '  I  never  meet  anyone  or  do 
anything.  Things  just  go  on,  every  day 
alike.'  She  began  to  indulge  herself  in  pessi- 
mism. Compared  with  the  soothing  syrup  of 
Aunt  Hester's  religion,  despair  was  almost 
intoxicating  :  she  tasted  it  eagerly,  as  though 
it  had  been  wine.  In  those  days  she  and 
Hypatia  had  echoed  each  other  rapturously 
enough,  agreeing — with  what  delight — that 
life  was  but  a  dry  husk  and  death  a  fit  ending 
to  a  witless  scheme.  But  now  Hypatia,  with  a 
fatal  instinct  for  novelty,  had  subsided  into  the 
arms  of  a  new  religion,  a  religion  that  made 
summary  end  of  all  problems  by  denying  their 
existence.  It  was  this,  Sheila  divined,  that  had 
put  that  look  of  assured  calm  into  her  eyes. 

1  So  here  you  are  then,'  said  Hypatia,  shy,  as 
ever,  of  demonstration.  '  Where's  your  trunk  ? 
I've  got  the  trap  in  the  station-yard.' 

With  Sheila  and  her  belongings  safely  in 
the  trap  Hypatia  took  the  reins  between  her 
capable  fingers  and  drove  away. 

'  It's  very  jolly  here,'  said  Sheila. 

'  Yes.  Much  the  same  as  before.  Why, 
it  must  be  a  year  since  your  last  visit  !  ' 

•  It  is.' 

'  Scandalous  !  '  Hypatia  smiled  reproof. 
'  Well,  has  your  quest  succeeded  yet  ? ' 

'  My  quest  ?  ' 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        219 

'  You  wrote  some  months  ago  saying  that 
you  could  never  rest  until  you  had  found  a 
philosophy  that  would  hold  water  ?  ' 

'  I'm  still  seeking,'  admitted  Sheila. 

'  You'll  never  find  it,'  remarked  Hypatia, 
with  calm  certainty,  '  in  the  direction  you  are ' 
looking  in.' 

'  No  ? '  said  Sheila  good-humouredly. 

'  Well,  you'll  have  plenty  of  chance  here  of 
inspecting  every  fad,'  said  Hypatia.  '  They're 
a  lively  set,  our  neighbours.  There's  almost 
every  shade  of  belief  and  unbelief  possible  to 
the  human  mind  represented  here,  you'll 
remember,  and  every  shade  has  its  club  or 
church  or  soap-box/ 

'  Even  your  shade  ? '  interposed  Sheila. 

*  Yes.  Though  that's  altogether  different,' 
Hypatia  retorted.  *  Still  I  can  understand 
that  you  think  it  just  one  more  little  sect  and 
nothing  else.  When  you  are  in  science  you 
will  see  everything  more  clearly.' 

'  I  shall  see  that  there's  nothing  to  see  at 
all,'  said  Sheila.  '  Isn't  that  your  fundamental 
doctrine  ?  ' 

'  True,  matter  does  not  exist,  if  that's  what 
you  mean,'  said  Hypatia.  '  That  is  perhaps 
Our  Leader's  greatest  discovery.  God  is  All- 
Good,  the  very  Principle  of  Goodness,  and  man 
is  His  reflection.  Sin,  disease,  and  death ' 


220        THE    HOUSE    AT     MAADI 

'  Exist  in  the  reflection  but  not  in  the 
reflector/  remarked  Sheila.  '  Are  your  people 
of  the  same  way  of  thinking  ? ' 

'  Oh  no.'  Hypatia  shook  her  head. 
1  Mother's  trying  to  understand,  but  Father's 
making  no  attempt  at  all.' 

'  What  about  your  brother  ? ' 

'  Of  course,  Edward's  hopeless.  He's 
utterly  absorbed  in  his  precious  book.' 

'  I  thought  he  was  going  in  for  law,'  said 
Sheila. 

'  So  did  I.  So  did  everybody.  He  got  a 
good  first  in  his  Tripos.  But  he  doesn't 
really  care  for  law.  History's  his  great  sub- 
ject.' 

*  What's    the    book    about  ? '     Sheila    was 
excited  by  the  thought  of  meeting  in  the  flesh 
this  maker  of  books. 

'  I  believe  he  calls  it  A  History  of  the 
Religious  Idea,  but  he's  very  reticent  about  it. 
It's  a  very  proud  exhibition  of  ignorance,  no 
doubt.' 

*  Hypatia  !  '  protested  Sheila.     '  How  very 
unkind  of  you  ! ' 

Hypatia  sniffed. 

'  Not  at  all.  You  misunderstand  me.  Ed- 
ward, you  see,  is  an  agnostic.  Tout  ce  que 
je  saisy  c'est  que  je  ne  sais  rien,  you  know.  He 
professes  to  know  nothing  about  God  and  so 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        221 

on,  and  is  just  as  proud  of  his  ignorance  as  I 
used  to  be  of  mine.* 

'  It  must  be  nice  for  you  to  know  all  about 
it  now,'  said  Sheila. 

'  It  is,'  agreed  the  seer.  '  But  it's  know- 
ledge anyone  can  share  who  will  try  to  under- 
stand.' 

From  the  field  they  were  passing  Falrfiel(Ts 
Hygienic  Corsets  blazed  in  letters  of  red  above 
the  hedge.  The  factory  chimneys  blotted  out 
the  horizon. 

Hypatia's  father  was  a  spare,  bullet-headed 
man  with  mutton-chop  whiskers  of  a  sandy  hue 
and  an  indomitable  nose  that  he  had  followed 
faithfully  -per  aspera  ad  astra.  The  stars  of 
Mr.  Fairfield's  attainment  were  commercial 
prosperity  and  for  his  son  the  education  that 
he  himself  had  been  denied.  It  became  more 
and  more  apparent  to  Sheila,  during  that  drive 
from  the  station,  that  for  Hypatia's  parents 
Edward,  the  firstborn,  was  the  being  round 
whom  the  world  revolved.  For  him  the  sun 
shone  and  the  little  stars  clapped  their  hands. 
Fairfield  senior,  at  first  indifferent  to  Edward, 
had  been  trained  in  son-worship  by  his  wife. 
Behind  a  brusqueness  that  passed  for  eccentric 
humour  Mrs.  Fairfield  concealed  power. 
Worshipping  her  son,  for  his  advancement  she 


222        THE     HOUSE    AT     MAADI 

had  used  her  husband  unsparingly,  guiding  his 
energy  consistently  in  the  direction  of  most 
commercial  gain,  and  curbing  his  desire  to 
spend  himself,  a  prophet  in  the  wilderness,  in 
fruitless  public  advocacy  of  freethought.  Her 
subjugation  of  her  husband,  himself  a  being 
of  great  though  erratic  energy,  was  the  gradual 
achievement  of  twenty-five  years. 

'  Well,  Miss  Dyrle,'  said  Hypatia's  father 
briskly.  '  Here  you  are  again  !  We're  glad 
to  see  you.  You  know  that.' 

He  looked  at  Sheila  kindly,  but  as  if  to  say  : 
*  Deny  it  if  you  can.' 

'  Ah,'  he  added,  '  here's  my  wife.  The 
honoured  guest's  arrived,  me  dear,  and  I'm 
just  extending  to  her,  in  the  name  of  the 
family,  a  hearty  welcome.' 

The  arrival  of  Mrs.  Fan-field  displaced  a 
lot  of  air. 

*  Now  this  is  a  treat,'  she  said,  holding  out 
both  her  hands.  '  My  dear  Sheila  !  I  may 
still  call  you  Sheila,  mayn't  I  ?  You  are  so 
often  in  our  thoughts  !  ' 

Sheila  murmured  her  pleasure. 

'  Must  take  us  as  you  find  us,'  admonished 
Mr.  Fairfield.  '  We're  homely  folk  with  no 
airs.  No  education  to  speak  of.  Couldn't 
afford  it.  And  now  that  we  can  afford  it — it's 
too  late.' 


THE     HOUSE    AT    MAADI         223 

'  Not  too  late  for  Edward,  father  dear,' 
Edward's  mother  reminded  him. 

'  Ah  no.  One  scholar  in  the  family  at  any 
rate.' 

'  One  scholar,  three  agnostics,  and  a  religious 
crank,  eh,  dad  ? '  remarked  Hypatia. 

Her  father  laughed. 

'  Heard  the  news  ?  '  He  turned  to  Sheila. 
*  Hypatia's  saved.  Got  a  new  religion.  Mine 
wasn't  good  enough  for  her.' 

'  What  is  yours,  dad  ?  I  didn't  know  you 
had  one.' 

*  When  you  and  Edward  were  nippers  I 
told  you  my  religion.  Be  afraid  of  nothing 
except  doing  wrong.  That's  mine.  Every- 
thing in  the  garden's  lovely  :  that's  yours.' 

'  Well,  stop  arguing  all  of  you,  and  come 
to  tea,'  said  Mrs.  Fairfield.  '  Sheila  must  be 
ready  for  hers,  I'm  sure.  Have  you  met 
Bunny,  Sheila  ?  ' 

'  No.     Who's  Bunny  ?  ' 

'  One  of  mother's  young  men,'  explained 
Hypatia.  '  Quite  an  acquisition.  Aristocratic 
by  birth,  democratic  in  sentiment.  Isn't  that 
it,  mother  ?  ' 

At  tea  they  were  joined  by  Edward,  rather 
reluctantly,  and  by  the  Honourable  Richard 
Bunnard,  alias  Bunny.  Bunny  was  a  fair 
freckled  youth,  with  sleek  hair  brushed  straight 


224        THE     HOUSE     AT     MAADI 

back  from  his  forehead  and  well  plastered  to  the 
head.  His  blue  eyes  followed  Hypatia's  every 
movement  with  patient  doglike  devotion,  except 
when  recalled  from  this  dereliction  by  the  voice 
of  Mrs.  Fairfield. 

'  Now  then,  Bunny  !  I  want  to  hear  what 
you  think  about  this  minimum  wage  question. 
Is  thirty-two  shillings  enough  for  a  skilled 
worker  like  a  plate-layer  ?  ' 

Bunny,  very  nervous,  began  opening  and 
shutting  his  mouth  soundlessly  like  a  gold- 
fish. 

'Well,  Mrs.  Fairfield,  I  hardly  think  so. 
A  fellow  could  hardly  live  on  such  a  mere 
pittance,  could  he  ?  Forty-two  or  fifty-two  or 
even  .  .  .' 

'  Sixty-two,'  murmured  Hyp?tia. 

'  Yes,  sixty- two,'  he  said,  catching  eagerly 
at  a  straw.  '  Or  say  three  guineas,  sixty 
three.  Not  much  more  than  a  hundred  and 
fifty  a  year,  you  know.' 

'  There,  father  ! '  cried  Mrs.  Fairfield. 
'  What  do  you  think  of  that  ? ' 

'  Of  what,  me  dear  ?  ' 

'  Why,  the  plate-layers  are  to  have  a  minimum 
of  sixty-three  shillings  a  week  ?  ' 

Bunny  laughed. 

*  Oh  no,  Mrs.  Fairfield.  It  doesn't  follow. 
I  only  said  they  ought  to  have  that.' 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        225 

'  Well,  you  must  see  to  it,'  retorted  Mrs. 
Fairfield.  '  You  young  people,  that's  your 
work  in  life,  to  stir  things  up.  I  think  you 
must  go  into  parliament,  Bunny.  Yes.  I 
shall  send  you  to  parliament  to  put  things 
right  for  us.' 

*  But  perhaps  Bunny  would  rather  not  be  sent 
to  parliament,  mother  ?  '  suggested  Hypatia. 

*  Indeed,'  said  the  young  man,  '  I'd  much 
rather    not.     Edward    would    make   a    much 
better  politician  than  I.' 

Mrs.  Fairfield  proudly  surveyed  her  son. 
'  Ah,  we  must  see  about  Edward.  We're 
not  quite  ready  for  parliament  yet,  are  we, 
Edward  ?  ' 

Edward  smiled.  *  For  my  part,  I  never  shall 
be  ready.' 

*  Mother  ought  to  go  there  herself,'  said 
Hypatia.     '  She'd  put  the  world  straight  in  ten 
minutes.' 

Her  mother  listened  indulgently. 

'  Do  you  know,  Sheila,  my  children  are 
very  lucky  children.  They've  been  brought 
up  in  perfect  freedom.  They've  got  the  habit 
of  freedom.  They  do  and  think  just  as  they 
like,  have  never  known  what  compulsion  was. 
Here's  Hypatia  now,  with  her  religion  :  she's 
never  been  taught  it  by  me  ;  I've  never  forced 
anything  down  her  throat.  I  believe  that 


S.E. 


226        THE     HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

everybody   has   a    right   to    follow    his   own 
bent.' 

*  It  must   be  very   nice,'   said   Sheila,    '  to 
be  brought  up  in  an  atmosphere  like  that.' 

'  It  would  be,'  Hypatia  murmured,  but 
Mrs.  Fairfield  did  not  take  up  the  challenge. 

'  I  wish  you'd  teach  me  your  New  Thought,' 
begged  Bunny  of  Hypatia. 

'  Which  is  it,  New  Thought  or  Higher 
Thought  ? '  asked  Sheila. 

'  Neither,'  answered  Edward.  '  It's  some- 
thing newer  and  higher  than  either.  Unfor- 
tunately you  have  to  believe  it  implicitly 
before  you  can  understand  it  to  be  anything  but 
nonsense.' 

'  You  can  be  quiet,  Edward,'  said  his  sister, 

*  even  if  you  can't  be  just.' 

'  But,  really,'   protested  the  scared  Bunny. 

*  I  am   quite  in  earnest,    Hypatia.     I    would 
listen  respectfully  to  anyone's  religion,  especi- 
ally yours.     Won't  you  tell  me  about  it  ?  ' 

Hypatia  relented.  '  I  will,  some  time.  It's 
useless  with  Edward  about.' 

*  It  was  founded  by  a  woman,'  said  Edward, 
'  and  she's  written  a  book  that  is  the  beginning 
and  end  of  all  Truth.     Read  it,  Bunny,  read  it 
and  live.' 

'  You     see.'     Hypatia     smiled     patiently. 

*  That's  what  I  have  to  put  up  with.' 


THE     HOUSE    AT    MAADI        227 

'  It's  too  bad,'  Bunny  reproached  Edward. 

4  Oh,  don't  sympathize  with  me,  please  \  ' 
said  Hypatia. 

Sheila  thought  :  '  How  hard  she  has  grown  ! ' 
and,  having  already  tasted  of  her  friend's 
sublime  certainties,  she  felt  some  relish  for 
Edward's  mockery. 

Edward  seemed  the  most  likeable  person 
in  the  room,  except  perhaps  Bunny.  Edward 
was  for  the  most  part  very  quiet  and  self- 
contained.  He  possessed  rather  an  impressive 
dome  of  forehead,  but  he  maintained  an 
impenetrable  reserve  without  assuming  that  air 
of  learning  and  distinction  in  which  his  mother 
sought  so  earnestly  to  invest  him.  Mrs.  Fair- 
field's  maternal  glance  conveyed  unmistakably 
to  the  rest  :  '  We  must  not  trouble  Edward 
with  our  trivial  talk.  His  thoughts  are  not 
our  thoughts  ;  neither  are  his  ways  our  ways. 
He  has  taken  his  degree,  and  he  is  writing  a 
book.'  Sometimes  she  referred  questions  to 
him,  as  to  an  authority  ;  it  was  as  though 
she  was  continually  thrusting  upon  him  his 
bachelor's  hood,  he  as  continually  repudiating 
it  with  a  confession  of  ignorance  or  indiffer- 
ence. His  anxiety  to  avoid  oracular  authority 
kept  him  more  silent  than  the  rest  ;  and  this 
very  silence  gave  him  in  Sheila's  eyes  a  dis- 
tinction that  was  almost  fascination.  She 


228        THE     HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

guessed  him  to  be  modest,  unassuming,  and 
clever.  The  mystery  of  his  inner  life  drew 
her  interest  towards  him. 

But  Bunny,  too,  was  interesting  ;  for  Bunny 
had  good  looks  and  that  air  of  trustfully  appeal- 
ing for  affection  to  which  Sheila  was  so  suscep- 
tible. There  was  something  pathetic  about 
his  obvious  devotion  to  Hypatia.  Except  the 
commanding  Mrs.  Fairfield  he  seemed  to  look 
at  no  one  else.  He  deferred  to  Hypatia 
constantly. 

'  I  suppose  you  would  say  that  a  headache 
is  essentially  unreal,  Hypatia  ?  If  we  knew 
the  truth  about  ourselves  we  shouldn't  have 
headaches,  should  we  ?  ' 

*  We    shouldn't    have    even    heads,'    said 
Edward.     '  I  see  you've  already  had  a  dose, 
Bunny.' 

'  Shut  up,  Fairfield  !  '  said  the  Honourable 
Richard.  '  Give  your  sister  a  hearing.  Am  I 
right,  Hypatia  ? ' 

*  Certainly,'  agreed  Hypatia.     '  Our  failure 
to  apprehend  the  truth  is  the  root  of  all  so-called 
evil  and  pain.' 

*  I  see,'  said  Bunny,  wrinkling  his  brow. 
Sheila  was  touched  to  see  the  poor  boy  falling 

so  easy  a  pray  to  the  dominating  Hypatia.  But 
Mrs.  Fairfield  thought  it  was  time  to  look 
after  her  property. 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        229 

'  You  don't,  my  poor  Bunny,'  cut  in  Mrs. 
Fairfield.  '  Nor  does  anyone  else.  No  sense, 
anyhow.  Don't  fill  your  mind  with  such 
stuff  just  to  please  Hypatia.  .  .  .  You  must 
be  a  good  boy,'  she  added,  '  and  do  as  I  tell 
you.' 

'  Mother  means  that,  Bunny,'  said  Hypatia. 
'  She  means  every  word,  although  she  tries 
to  make  a  joke  of  it.  If  you  want  to  please 
mother,  obey  her  in  all  things.  It  is  the  only 
way.' 

Mrs.  Fairfield  became  pale  and  distressed. 
Signs  of  an  approaching  fainting-fit  were 
perceptible.  Observing  them,  her  husband 
broke  in  sharply.  '  Hypatia,  hold  your 
noise  ! ' 

So  there  was  a  feud,  thought  Sheila,  between 
the  young  woman  and  the  old  :  a  duel  for 
the  soul  of  Bunny.  Since  he  had  apparently 
no  brains  of  his  own  worth  considering,  the 
scalp  would  no  doubt  fall  to  Hypatia,  who 
had  youth  as  an  ally.  And  then  what  terrible 
vengeance  would  fall  upon  him  ?  Could  noth- 
ing save  him  from  them  both  ?  A  highly 
dangerous  pity  awoke  in  Sheila's  heart. 

*  You  shall  all  go  to  the  Folk  Dancing 
to-night,'  announced  Mrs.  Fairfield. 

The  lure  of  Folk  Dancing  led  them  across 


23o        THE     HOUSE    AT     MAADI 

two  fields  to  a  turreted  eccentric  stone  building 
known  as  the  Summer  School,  which  was  at 
once  a  gigantic  advertisement  and  a  place  of 
mental  and  physical  recreation  for  Fairfield's 
factory  hands.  He  had  spent  thousands  of 
pounds  on  this  long-cherished  scheme,  and 
only  a  well-timed  fainting-fit  of  his  wife's  had 
prevented  his  spending  thousands  more. 

Fairfield's  Summer  School  was  as  hygienic 
as  his  corsets.  It  was  a  curious  horseshoe- 
shaped  building  enclosing  a  large  well-kept 
lawn  in  the  middle  of  which,  on  festive  occa- 
sions, a  maypole  was  erected  ;  a  tower  and 
belfry  loomed  at  the  back.  To  these  cloisters 
the  factory  hands  were  wont  to  repair  for  free 
instruction  in  the  theory  and  practice  of  arts 
and  modern  languages,  for  lectures  on  history, 
sociology,  science,  for  concerts  and  dances 
on  the  green.  It  claimed  to  be,  and  was,  a 
local  centre  of  liberal  popular  culture.  Any- 
thing and  everything  could  be  discussed  there 
save  one  thing  :  it  was  a  point  of  honour  with 
the  founder  that  Fairfield's  Hygienic  Corsets 
should  never  be  mentioned. 

Dusk  had  already  fallen  when  the  Fairfield 
party  reached  the  green,  and  the  dancing  had 
already  begun.  Someone  began  lighting  the 
lamps. 

'  This  is  jolly  !  '  said  Bunny  with  infectious 


THE     HOUSE    AT     MAADI        231 

good   spirits.     '  Won't  you   dance   with   me, 
Hypatia  ? ' 

'  I've  never  been  taken  for  Hypatia  before,' 
Sheila  answered. 

'  Oh,  sorry  !  It's  Miss  Dyrle.  Do  dance 
with  me,  Miss  Dyrle.  It's  a  waltz  this  time, 
without  trimmings.' 

They  whirled  away  among  the  dancers. 

'  I  don't  know  these  old  dances,  do 
you  ?  ' 

'  No.  But  what  does  it  matter  ?  They 
stick  in  a  few  ordinary  things  now  and  again 
specially  for  Philistines  like  us.' 

Her  heart  danced  with  the  music. 

'  You  brought  your  violin,  didn't  you,  Mr. 
Bunnard  ?  When  are  you  going  to  play  for 
us  ?  ' 

But  Bunny  did  not  answer.  Sheila  was 
rather  chilled  to  observe  his  abrupt  change  of 
mood.  He  had  caught  sight  of  Hypatia 
dancing  with  her  brother. 

They  finished  the  set  in  silence,  and  Sheila 
was  immediately  claimed  by  Edward.  She  felt 
bitterly  alone  in  the  world.  She  and  Hypatia 
had  come  to  a  definite  parting  of  the  ways  ; 
and  she  had  no  other  friend. 

After  a  few  moments  she  complained  to 
Edward  of  giddiness.  He  led  her  to  a  seat. 

'  Feel   better  now  ?  ' 


232         THE     HOUSE    AT     MAADI 

*  Quite,  thanks.     But  I'd  rather  not  begin 
again  just  yet.' 

He  studied  the  ground. 

'  It's  a  year  since  you  were  here.' 

*  Yes/ 

'  I've  often  thought  of  that  visit.' 

*  Have   you  ?  '   said    Sheila.     *  I    live   with 
my  aunt,  you  know,  and  she  doesn't  approve 
of  my  visits  to  a  home  of  free-thinkers.' 

'  But  you  are  not  of  her  persuasion  ?  ' 

'  Obviously  not.  Hypatia  was  my  best 
friend.' 

'  Was  ? ' 

He  seemed  to  be  offering  a  far  from  unwel- 
come sympathy. 

'  Yes,  I'm  afraid  so.  I  wouldn't  have  you 
tell  her  for  the  world.  But  we've  drifted  away 
from  each  other.' 

*  Yes  ?     I  fancied  so.' 

*  I  suppose  it's  this  religion  of  hers,'  said 
Sheila.     '  Of  course  I  don't  care  a  rap  what 
she    believes,    but    she's    grown    so  ...  so 
remote.' 

'  I  agree  with  you  entirely.  I'm  glad  she 
hasn't  converted  you  anyhow.  My  friend 
Bunny  is  doomed,  I  fear.  Hypatia  begs  the 
whole  question.  If  matter  is  only  an  appear- 
ance it  is  none  the  less  real  to  our  minds  : 
it  exists  mentally.  The  whole  philosophy 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        233 

is  nothing  but  a  silly  quibble   about   terms.' 

*  How  is  your  book  getting  on  ? '  asked 
Sheila. 

'  Slowly,  but  it  is  getting  on.  Writing  a 
hundred  thousand  words  is  a  great  labour. 
The  mere  pen-pushing  alone  is  a  bore.' 

'  It  must  be.     Couldn't  you  dictate  it  ? ' 

'  That  would  be  difficult  for  me  and  very 
dull  for  the  unfortunate  secretary.  I'm  afraid 
I  should  be  too  self-conscious  to  work  well.' 

'  At  first,  perhaps,'  said  Sheila.  '  But  that 
would  wear  off.  And  it  would  be  a  privilege 
for  the  secretary,  I  should  think.' 

'  A  privilege  ! '  He  laughed.  '  Why,  the 
book  is  scandalous  and  atheistical.' 

*  That's  why  to  help  would  be  a  privilege,' 
she  answered  with  a  nervous  smile.     '  Would 
it  really  help  you  to  be  able  to  dictate  to 
someone  ?  ' 

'  That  would  depend,  I  expect.' 
She  summoned  her  courage. 
'  Well,  to  me,  for  instance  ?  ' 

*  You  I ' 

'  Yes,  me,'  she  said  humbly.  '  I  can  spell, 
you  know.' 

'  You  would  do  that  for  me  ?  '  he  exclaimed 
in  amazement. 

*  I'd   willingly  do   it — for  the  cause,'   she 
added  rather  mischievously. 


234        THE     HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

*  How  astoundingly  decent  of  you  !  ' 

'  It's  not  very  polite  to  be  so  surprised 
to  find  me  decent,'  she  said,  laughing  at 
him. 

He  looked  with  undisguised  admiration  into 
her  Irish  eyes.  '  By  Jove,  what  things  we 
could  do  together  !  ' 

A  flame  of  comradeship  leaped  to  life  in 
Sheila.  The  word  '  together  '  made  an  echo- 
ing music  in  her  mind. 

Mr.  Fairfield  stood  before  them. 

*  Miss  Dyrle,  give  me  the  honour.     A  real 
old-fashioned  dance  this  time  instead  of  these 
new-fangled  folk  things.     Sir  Roger  de  Cover- 
ley.     And  after  that  Bunny's  going  to  give  us  a 
tune  on  the  fiddle.' 

Later,  feeling  rather  breathless  and  crumpled, 
she  listened  to  Bunny's  '  tune  on  the  fiddle.' 
She  could  see  the  violinist's  face,  with  a  new 
expression  in  his  eyes,  spangled  grotesquely 
with  a  red  light  from  a  fairy  lamp.  The  moon 
was  rising  in  a  pale  green  sky.  Two  tall 
feathery  trees,  swaying  in  the  gentle  wind, 
seemed  to  caress  each  other  as  they  merged  for 
a  moment  and  drew  apart  again.  The  music 
spoke — spoke  to  Sheila  intimately.  It  seemed 
to  have  for  her  a  secret  message.  It  com- 
municated a  tremulous  half-sobbing  ecstacy  of 
pain  and  beauty  :  it  drew  her,  shuddering  with 


THE     HOUSE    AT     MAADI         235 

delight,  through  divers  moods.  Now  she  was 
in  a  moonlit  forest  of  tall  poplars,  walking, 
walking,  alone  in  the  universe.  Now  there 
was  a  flowered  field,  full  of  white  and  green, 
yellow  and  red,  made  glad  with  the  twinkling 
feet  of  dancing  shepherds  and  shepherdesses. 

As  if  in  response  to  the  music,  stars  began 
tremblingly  to  peer  through  the  luminous  green 
curtain  of  the  sky. 

The  next  morning  Edward  invited  her  into 
the  holy  of  holies  where  the  book  was  being 
written. 

It  was  a  small  room  having  some  of  the 
austerity  of  a  monk's  cell.  Two  of  the  walls 
were  lined  with  books,  classified  under  such 
headings  as  Ancient  History,  Mediaeval  His- 
tory, Modern  History,  Sociology,  Science, 
Philosophy. 

'  I  do  everything  on  a  system,'  remarked 
Edward  in  a  rather  satisfied  tone  ;  but  Sheila 
only  laughed  at  his  labels. 

'  I  could  never  read  here,'  she  said.  '  I 
should  put  a  ticket  on  myself  and  stand  in 
the  corner  all  day.  What  a  dreadfully  orderly 
room  ! ' 

'  Don't  you  like  it  ? '  There  was  dis- 
appointment in  his  tone. 

4  Yes,  very  much.  It  is  little  and  quiet 
and  studious.  There's  no  cabbage  pattern  on 


236        THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

the  wall  and  no  Jorrocks  pictures.  There  are 
no  pictures  of  podgy  children  stroking  big 
dogs,  and  no  family  photographs.  ...  I'm 
sure  that  gentleman  over  there  isn't  in  the 
family.'  She  pointed  to  a  photograph  of  a 
Greek  statue. 

4  No,  that's  Euripides.  And  yet  there's 
something  about  the  room  that  you  don't  like. 
What  is  it  ? ' 

'  Well,  you  do  everything  on  a  system,  you 
said.  I  think  that's  what's  wrong.  You've 
done  this  room  on  a  system.  Ars  est  celare 
artem.  Isn't  it  the  same  with  systems  ?  ' 

*  Do  you  read  Horace  much  ?  '  he  enquired. 

*  Not  at  all,'   confessed   Sheila.     '  I   found 
that  tag  at  the  end  of  a  dictionary.' 

He  laughed.     '  You're  delightfully  honest.' 

A  shaft  of  sunlight  falling  on  his  face  made 
visible  the  little  downy  hairs  over  his  cheek- 
bones. Sheila  caught  her  eyes  involuntarily 
looking  at  them. 

'  Well,'  she  said.  '  Aren't  you  going  to 
work  now  ?  ' 

'  There's  no  hurry.' 

'  Come,  come,  I'm  sure  your  system  doesn't 
permit  loitering  !  Can  you  provide  me  with 
pen  and  paper  ?  ' 

'  Do  you  really  mean  me  to  dictate  to  you  ? ' 

She  felt  a  sudden  twinge  of  embarrassment 


THE     HOUSE    AT    MAADI         237 

lest  she  was  pressing  unwanted  assistance  upon 
him. 

*  You  said  I  was  honest  just  now.  Will  you 
be  equally  honest  with  me  ?  If  my  presence 
would  disturb  you,  please  turn  me  out.' 

He  considered  gravely  for  a  moment.  '  One 
can  hardly  tell — save  by  experiment.' 

'  You  wouldn't  mind  telling  me,  would 
you  ? ' 

'  No.  I  would  tell  you  at  once.  You  have 
sense  enough  not  to  be  offended.' 

She  was  absurdly  elated  by  this  curt 
compliment. 

'  Besides,'  he  added,  '  the  book  comes 
first  with  me  always.  Nothing  else  matters.' 

She  ruminated  upon  that  thought  for  several 
seconds.  The  bluntness,  the  ungraciousness 
of  it  at  once  repelled  and  attracted  her.  She 
could  not  but  admire  Edward's  capacity  for 
impersonal  enthusiasm  ;  it  made  him  great  ; 
and  she  found  something  fascinating  in  his 
indifference  to  lesser  things.  Among  those 
lesser  things  she  was  content,  for  the  moment, 
to  include  herself.  To  be  his  tool,  to  help  him 
in  his  work  :  such  service,  she  felt,  would  be  its 
own  sufficient  reward. 

Noting  her  silence,  '  That  seems  to  you 
inhuman  ? '  he  asked. 

'  It   seems   to   me   superhuman,'   answered 


238        THE     HOUSE     AT     MAADI 

Sheila.  '  Perhaps  that's  the  secret  of  fine 
living  :  to  subordinate  all  personal  things  to 
some  great  impersonal  passion.' 

'  That's  just  how  I  feel,'  he  said. 

Sheila  continued.  '  Unless  we're  content  to 
be  miserable  and  useless,  we  must  have  a 
consuming  passion,  if  it's  only  for  collecting 
beetles  :  something  that  doesn't  depend  on 
anybody  else.  .  .  .  Persons  change,'  she 
added  sadly. 

*  You're  thinking  of  Hypatia,'  he  suggested. 

'  Hypatia,  yes.  And  someone  else.  It's 
like  building  your  house  on  sand,  you  know, 
ever  to  rely  on  persons.' 

'  Still,'  said  Edward,  '  if  a  person's  rational 
and  consistent — and  there  are  consistent  per- 
sons.' 

'  Yes,  and  there  are  clockwork  toys.  A 
perfectly  consistent  person  must  be  very  much 
like  them,  I  should  think.' 

'  But  surely  you  agree  that  man  is  just  that  : 
a  mechanical  toy  in  the  hands  of  Necessity. 
The  illusion  of  freewill  is  only  disguised 
mechanism.' 

'  How  dreadful  !  '  Sheila  exclaimed.  '  Then 
Henley's  lines  : 

I  am  the  master  of  my  fate ; 
I  am  the  captain  of  my  soul — 

are  meaningless  to  you  ?  * 


THE     HOUSE    AT     MAADI        239 

*  The  man  who  thinks  that  he  is  master  of 
his  fate  is  the  most  enslaved  of  all  persons,' 
said  Edward.     '  For  he  is  not  even  master  of  the 
facts.' 

*  That's    a    quotation    from    your    book,    I 
believe,'   said    Sheila.     And   the   young   man 
blushed. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  a  long  and 
animated  discussion,  the  first  of  many.  In 
Edward  Sheila  discovered  that  reliability  which 
she  had  thought  could  be  attributed  to  no 
person.  His  mind  was  keen  and  critical  :  it 
worked  with  a  certain  deadly  precision  that 
was  as  impressive  and  at  times  almost  as  terrify- 
ing as  a  piece  of  gigantic  machinery.  He  had 
doubts  and  hesitancies  indeed  :  the  hesitancies 
of  one  aware  of  the  subtleties,  the  baffling 
complexity,  of  problems  which  less  careful 
minds  deemed  simple ;  but  once  he  had 
reached  a  definite  decision,  nothing  short  of 
overpowering  ratiocination,  no  consideration 
of  comfort  or  sentiment,  could  shake  him  from 
it.  And  while  her  sense  of  poetry  revolted 
against  a  certain  aridness  in  his  philosophy,  the 
very  magnitude  and  the  shattering  presumption 
of  his  attempt  to  rationalize  the  universe 
overpowered  her  imagination  and  thrilled  her 
with  a  sense  of  great  adventure. 


240        THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

4 

In  sharp  contrast  with  this  austere  enthusiasm 
for  Edward  Fairfield  and  his  work,  there 
flickered  up  in  her  heart  a  secret  romantic 
compassion  for  the  Honourable  Richard  Bun- 
nard,  that  fair-haired,  frank-eyed,  simple- 
minded  young  man,  whose  nickname,  Bunny, 
appeared  even  to  the  eye  of  affection  so  entirely 
suitable.  For  his  youth  and  good  nature,  for 
his  docility,  for  the  irresponsible  levity  that 
even  the  Fairfield  atmosphere  could  not  entirely 
inhibit,  and  still  more  for  the  less  definite 
charm  he  unconsciously  exercised  over  her, 
Sheila  conceived  a  liking  that  trembled  some- 
times dangerously  on  the  verge  of  tenderness. 
She  was  stirred  by  his  voluntary  surrender  of 
his  personality  into  the  grasping  hands  of 
Hypatia,  the  high-priestess  of  a  new  oracle, 
and  trembled  at  the  thought  of  his  being 
immolated,  a  blood  sacrifice,  upon  that  godless 
altar.  But,  most  of  all,  the  memory  of  his  music 
troubled  the  deep  cool  waters  of  her  mind.  She 
sought  in  him  often,  and  sometimes  for  a 
fleeting  instant  found,  the  transfigured  face 
of  the  violinist  who  had  once  laid  his  spell  upon 
her. 

She  swayed  for  a  while  between  these  two 
magnetic  points  :  Edward's  intellectuality  and 


THE     HOUSE    AT     MAADI        241 

Bunny's  manifest  need  for  being  looked  after  ; 
but  if  the  one's  self-sufficiency  sometimes 
repelled  her  the  other's  comparative  vacuity 
of  mind  no  less  tried  her  patience.  With 
such  an  alternative,  perhaps  her  womanhood 
would  have  urged  her  irresistibly  towards 
Bunny,  in  spite  of  discouraging  precedent,  had 
not  that  youth  remained  unaware  of  her  claim 
to  be  anything  more  exciting  (and  that  was 
exciting  enough,  no  doubt)  than  Hypatia's 
friend. 

4  If  only  he  had  Edward's  brains  as  well  as 
his  own  niceness,'  Sheila  said  to  herself  ;  and 
humour  compelled  her  to  add,  self-scornfully  : 
'  Well,  what  if  he  had  ?  He'd  perhaps  be 
even  more  indifferent  to  me  than  he  is  now.' 
And  that  would  have  been  hard;  for  his 
absorption  in  Hypatia  was  so  complete  that  he 
could  even  sing  her  praises  in  little  solitary 
interviews  with  Sheila  contrived  for  that  very 
purpose. 

*  Don't  you  think  she's  very  clever  ? '  he 
said  one  day,  incredulous  of  a  hint  of  criti- 
cism. 

'  I  know  she's  got  wonderful  brains,'  Sheila 
assured  him.  *  But  at  present  I  believe  they're 
under  a  cloud.  That  sounds  horribly  dogmatic, 
I  expect.  But  I  really  think  Hypatia's  a  little 
bit  of  a  fanatic  nowadays.' 
S.E.  R 


242         THE     HOUSE    AT     MAADI 

He  rebelled  against  that.  *  She's  an  enthu- 
siast, if  you  like.' 

Sheila  smiled.  '  Perhaps  that's  all.  I  sup- 
pose fanaticism's  only  the  name  we  give  to 
the  other  person's  enthusiasm.' 

'  I  must  say  she  often  puzzles  me,'  admitted 
Bunny.  '  You  know  her  very  well,  don't  you  ? ' 

'  Not  so  well  as  you  do,  I  expect.' 

'  Oh,  but  you  were  at  school  with  her,'  he 
urged. 

'  That's  five,  six,  seven  years  ago.' 

'  Still.  .  .  .'  He  ached  to  believe  that 
Sheila  out  of  the  fulness  of  her  knowledge  of 
Hypatia  could  help  him.  '  Do  you  think  she's 
capable  of  liking  anybody  ?  ' 

'  Liking  ? '  The  clear  inadequacy  of  the 
word  arrested  her. 

*  Liking  very  much,  I  mean,  don't  you  see  ? 
It's  this  way  :  supposing  you  wanted  .  .  .' 
He  waited  as  if  for  her  to  help  him  out.  But 
she  rather  pointedly  didn't.  '  She  seems  so 
aloof  very  often,  don't  you  think  ?  ' 

To  this  mild  proposition  Sheila  assented. 
'  A  little  cold,  you  think,  perhaps  ? '  She 
guided  his  stumbling  feet  thus  far. 

'  Cold,  but  not,'  he  hoped,  '  incapable  of — 
well,  affection,  as  it  were.' 

Sheila  agreed  gravely  that '  incapable  '  would 
be  too  absolute  a  word. 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        243 

'  She  is  very  fine-looking.'  He  had  the 
air  of  submitting  this  idea  for  her  accepta- 
tion. 

4  Fine  is  quite  the  right  epithet,'  Sheila 
assured  this  incredible  youth.  '  She  has  always 
been  fearless  ;  you  can  see  that  in  her  face. 
And  she  had  a  sense  of  humour  once.'  To 
herself  she  added  :  '  Am  I  so  very  maternal 
that  he  must  confide  in  me  ? ' 

After  a  brief  transitional  hovering,  when  he 
was  neither  quite  in  Sheila's  company  nor 
definitely  out  of  it,  he  went  away,  no  doubt 
to  treasure  all  these  things  in  his  heart,  leaving 
Sheila  in  a  state  that  oscillated  between  amuse- 
ment and  a  half-ashamed  regret.  And  that 
night  Hypatia,  joining  her  friend  in  the  spacious 
bedroom  that  they  shared,  displayed  unwonted 
animation.  Whether  it  was  Bunny  or  the 
stirring  in  its  sleep  of  old  friendship  that 
loosened  her  tongue,  Sheila  patiently  waited  to 
have  revealed  to  her. 

Hypatia  was  in  a  reminiscential  mood.  She 
sat  on  Sheila's  bed  and  talked  of  Selborne  days, 
of  feuds  with  Miss  Fry,  of  Sheila's  Aunt  Hester, 
and  of  what  little  she  knew  of  Kay.  She 
appeared  rather  to  dwell  on  Kay.  She  called 
up  once-familiar  faces  from  the  pit  of  oblivion 
and  set  them  again  speaking  forgotten  parts. 
And  presently,  without  preamble,  she  remarked : 


244        THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

*  There's  more  in  Bunny  than  he  allows  to 
appear,  don't  you  think  ?  ' 

'  Very  likely,'  Sheila  said,  sleepily.  '  But 
you  know  him  so  much  better  than  I.' 

*  He's  ductile,'  said  Hypatia,  rather  con- 
sciously selecting  the  word. 

'  Too  much  so,'  Sheila  ventured.  '  How 
beautifully  he  plays  the  violin.  That  night  at 
the  Folk  Dancing  he  was  wonderful.' 

'  Yes.  In  his  way  he's  quite  a  genius. 
Though  of  course  this  musical  glamour  is  not 
really  healthy.  It's  a  kind  of  delusion,  a 
magnetism.  In  Real  Knowledge  it  doesn't 
exist.' 

'  He's  rather  marvellous,  your  friend  Bunny,' 
Sheila  said  tritely,  chilled  by  Hypatia's  eternal 
prosing. 

'  He's  a  very  nice  boy.  But  under 
mother's  thumb  at  present.  I  shall  change 
that.' 

Sheila  shivered.     '  You  !     How  ? ' 

'  He  proposed  to  me  to-night.' 

Sheila  was  dumbstruck  for  a  moment.  Then, 
1  You're  very  calm  about  it,'  she  said.  '  Did 
you  ... ?  " 

'  Not  yet.  But  if  I  do  accept  him  there'll 
be  a  fine  tussle  with  mother.' 

'  Doesn't  your  mother  like  him  ? ' 

'  Immensely.     But  mother  has  an  inordinate 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        245 

appetite  for  affection.  She's  like  a  spider  with 
a  fly.  She  won't  share  him.' 

'  How  bitterly  you  speak  !  ' 

Hypatia  loftily  repudiated  the  suggestion. 
'  Not  at  all.  I'm  merely  stating  a  fact.  You 
will  see,  if  you're  here  long  enough.' 

'  Poor  Bunny  !  '  said  Sheila. 

'  Oh,  don't  worry  about  him.  I  shan't  let 
mother  gobble  him  up,  you  may  be  sure.' 

'  I'm  sure  you  won't,'  Sheila  replied,  biting 
her  lip.  '  You'll  marry  him  sooner  than  that.' 

But  irony  was  lost  on  Hypatia.  '  Mother 
shan't  have  him,'  she  reiterated. 


Edward  found  the  presence  of  another  person 
distracting.  The  dictation  of  his  book  was 
soon  abandoned,  and  he  pursued  his  solitary 
way.  Yet  not  solitary,  for  he  was  not  uncon- 
scious that  his  solitude  had  been  invaded, 
destroyed  ;  and  he  was  not  yet  sure  whether 
he  liked  or  resented  the  invasion.  In  spirit 
another  walked  by  his  side.  For  Sheila  this 
book,  child  of  his  brain,  became  a  living  thing 
to  be  thought  about  with  a  reverent  excite- 
ment. She  was  still  enough  of  a  child  to  find 
this  making  of  books  miraculous  :  it  was  like 
that  creation  of  something  out  of  nothing 


246        THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

which  the  church  attributed  to  God.  The 
best  of  Edward  went  into  his  book,  and  Sheila 
was  quick  to  remember  this  in  his  defence 
when  vitality  or  humour  seemed  lacking  in 
him.  He  worked  with  clocklike  regularity. 
He  wrote  from  nine  till  twelve-thirty.  He 
resumed  work,  after  lunch,  at  one-thirty  and 
wrote  till,  at  half-past  four,  some  toast  and  tea 
was  brought  to  him  on  a  tray.  For  this 
refreshment  he  allowed  himself  twenty  minutes, 
and  for  ten  minutes  he  systematically  did  noth- 
ing. From  five  till  seven  was  his  final  daily 
spell. 

Seven  o'clock  released  him  from  his  self- 
imposed  task.  At  half-past  seven  he  dined 
with  his  family,  and  having  dined  was  free  to 
cultivate  such  social  amenities  as  he  did  not 
utterly  despise.  He  formed  the  habit  of  seek- 
ing out  Sheila  ;  he  persuaded  her  to  go  for 
walks  with  him  :  strenuous  almost  racing 
walks,  conscientious  and  concentrated  exercise, 
essential  to  the  maintenance  of  physical  and 
therefore  mental  fitness.  She,  glad  of  an 
antidote  for  the  daily  dose  of  omiscience  forced 
down  her  throat  by  Hypatia,  welcomed  this 
new  friendship.  She  was  a  willing  and  intelli- 
gent listener  ;  the  quickness  of  her  mind 
delighted  him,  and  his  appreciation  evoked  an 
answering  delight  in  her.  The  variety  and 


THE     HOUSE    AT    MAADI        247 

colour  of  her  thinking,  a  habit  she  had  of 
investing  with  emotion  even  the  dry  bones  of 
argument,  provided  a  foil  for  Edward's  exact 
logic.  She  took  imaginative  leaps  in  meta- 
physical speculation,  while  he  plodded  labori- 
ously on  from  point  to  point,  never  retracing  a 
step.  They  sharpened  their  wits  against  each 
other  and  felt  marvellously  stimulated  by  the 
process.  And  still  it  was  of  the  book,  and  of 
cognate  subjects,  that  he  talked,  in  an  unending 
torrent  of  discourse.  He  involved  himself  in 
sentences  so  prodigious  that  Sheila  sometimes 
got  lost  in  a  labyrinth  of  phrases  and  subordinate 
clauses.  More  than  once  she  felt  rising  in 
her  a  secret  impatience  ;  she  even  got  to  the 
point  of  contemplating  the  discontinuance  of 
an  intercourse  that  became  daily  more  over- 
powering. Yet  looking  back,  as  the  days 
passed,  upon  that  vista  of  intimate,  flushed, 
excited  talk,  she  could  not  find  heart  to  cut 
adrift  from  him  ;  moreover,  he  had  made  her 
feel,  not  without  a  sense  of  her  presumption, 
that  she  had  somehow  become  necessary  to  his 
literary  scheme.  These  enormously  distended 
monologues  of  his  helped  him  to  clarify  his 
thought,  and  her  occasional  interpolated  criti- 
cism freshened  his  dialectic  processes.  She 
felt  a  certain  responsibility  for  him. 

Mrs.  Fairfield  observed  this  ripening  intimacy 


248        THE     HOUSE    AT     MAADI 

with  a  curious  admixture  of  benevolence  and 
displeasure.  One  evening  she  came  upon  her 
son  and  Sheila  sauntering  in  the  garden  together 
a  few  minutes  before  seven,  and  smiled  at  her 
guest  with  an  inimical  glint  in  her  eye. 

'  Sheila  dear,'  she  said  bitter-sweetly,  '  you 
mustn't  take  my  son  from  his  work.' 

Sheila,  flushing  with  resentment,  could  make 
no  reply. 

'  Mother,'  said  Edward,  neither  hotly  nor 
coldly,  '  you  interrupt  the  thread  of  my  argu- 
ment.' 

Mrs.  Fairfield  flashed  a  point  of  jealous  fire 
at  Sheila,  who  turned  on  her  heel,  biting  her 
lips  in  vexation.  She  was  astounded  and 
ashamed  by  this  momentary  and  involuntary 
revelation  of  a  woman's  soul. 

Edward  followed  her  without  an  instant's 
hesitation. 

'  See  you  at  dinner,  mother,'  he  said  casually, 
over  his  shoulder.  ...  '  The  matter  is  not 
quite  so  simple  as  that,'  he  went  on,  speaking 
to  the  girl  at  his  side.  '  The  vitalist  hypothesis 
has  implications  that  lie  deeper  than  that  alto- 
gether, and  that  run,  in  my  opinion,  altogether 
counter  to  the  ascertained  facts  of  experience. 
Chemical  analysis  .  .  .' 

Sheila  let  him  ramble  on,  grateful  that  he 
took  no  notice  of  her  evident  embarrassment. 


THE     HOUSE    AT    MAADI        249 

She  wished  he  had  left  her.  She  wanted  to 
escape  from  the  intolerable  sense  of  having  been 
delivered  an  insulting  ultimatum,  a  warning,  by 
Edward's  detestable  mother.  Yes,  Edward's 
detestable  mother  :  that  was  how  she  thought 
of  the  woman  in  whose  mien  she  had  read 
*  Hands  off  my  property  !  '  Her  instinct  was 
to  run  away  from  the  house  and  never  return  ; 
but  slowly,  as  Edward's  sentences  gathered 
length  and  momentum,  she  came  to  regard 
such  an  action  as  merely  melodramatic. 

She  cut  one  of  his  clauses  in  half  by  asking 
abruptly  :  '  What  did  your  mother  mean  by 
that  ?  ' 

He  was  pulled  up  short,  and  left  flounder- 
ing. 

'  I  beg  your  pardon  ? ' 

'  I'm  so  sorry,'  said  Sheila  ;  '  I'm  very  rude. 
I'm  afraid  I  wasn't  listening.  I  was  thinking 
of  what  your  mother  said.  What  makes  her 
hate  me  so  ? ' 

'  Hate  you  !  Dear  me,  no  ! '  he  exclaimed. 
'  You're  too  sensitive.  Mother  is  hurt  because 
I  give  my  confidence  to  you  and  not  to  her. 
Don't  worry  about  her.  She'll  have  to  get 
used  to  it.' 

'  Oh  no,  she  won't.  I  am  going  home  to- 
morrow.' 

'  To-morrow  ? ' 


250        THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

*  I   had   already   arranged   to,   you   know,' 
Sheila  untruthfully  assured  him. 

'  I  hope  you  will  stay  longer,'  he  said  earn- 
estly. '  If  mother  has  offended  you  she  shall 
apologize.  I'll  see  to  it.' 

'  Pray  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  And  let's 
drop  the  subject.  .  .  .  Won't  you  forgive 
my  inattention  and  tell  me  what  you  were 
saying  ?  ' 

They  had  by  now  reached  a  remote  part  of 
the  garden,  a  part  from  which  the  house  was 
hidden  by  a  mass  of  sweet  peas  clustering  over 
trelliswork.  A  rustic  seat  on  the  gravel  path 
by  the  trim  croquet-lawn  invited  them  to  rest. 

4  By  the  way,'  he  said,  when  they  had  sat 
down.  '  I've  finished  the  magnum  opus.' 

*  Finished  ! '  she  exclaimed,  glowing  with 
excited   pleasure.     '  How  fine  !     Aren't  you 
tremendously  glad  ? ' 

'  It's  a  relief,'  he  admitted.  '  I  shall  take  a 
week's  rest  and  then  start  the  revision.' 

She,  exulting  still  in  the  accomplished  work, 
could  spare  no  thought  for  the  revision. 

'  How  jolly  to  have  finished  !  You  didn't 
tell  me  you  were  near  the  end  ?  ' 

'  Ah,  you'd  forgotten  then.'  He  smiled 
indulgently.  *  I  told  you  a  fortnight  ago  that 
I  should  finish  on  the  thirteenth  of  this  month.' 

She  was  suitably  astonished. 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        251 

'  You  mean  to  say  you  knew  to  a  day  ? ' 

'  I  work  on  a  programme,  you  see,'  he  said, 
relishing  her  surprised  admiration. 

Now  that  the  work  was  done  he  seemed  to 
have  time  for  human  weaknesses.  This  un- 
expected boyish  vanity  made  Sheila  like  him 
more  than  she  had  ever  done  before. 

*  I  suppose  you're  pleased  with  yourself 
now  !  '  she  mocked  him  gently. 

'  Very  !  '  he  confessed.     They  both  laughed. 

'  There  was  another  thing  that  might  have 
told  you,'  he  said.  '  I  came  out  of  my  room 
before  seven  o'clock  to-night.  Have  you  ever 
known  that  happen  before  ?  ' 

'  You  see,  my  watch  had  stopped,'  she 
explained.  '  So  that  is  what  your  mother ' 

'  Probably.' 

'  Why  didn't  you  explain  to  her  ? '  she  asked 
him. 

'  I  refuse  to  propitiate  her,'  he  said.  *  Be- 
sides, I  wanted  you  to  know  first.' 

She  was  silent. 

'  Sheila,'  he  said  gently,  '  we  could  do 
such  a  lot  together  ! ' 

She  began  to  rise  from  her  seat,  but  he 
placed  on  her  knee  a  strong  and  strangely 
reassuring  hand. 

'  It's  a  year  since  your  last  visit  to  us,  isn't 
it?' 


252        THE     HOUSE    AT     MAADI 

Sheila  found  her  voice,  a  very  small  voice 
now,  and  answered  '  Yes.' 

'  Well,  a  year  ago  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
ask  you  to  marry  me.  Will  you  ?  ' 

There  was  a  teeming  silence.  Sheila's  mind 
was  in  a  whirl.  There  seemed  something 
wanting  in  the  richness  of  this  moment,  a 
disconcerting  gap  in  the  happiness  that  had 
come  within  her  reach.  But  another  feeling 
conquered.  She' looked  at  him  with  her  heart 
in  her  eyes. 

'  If  I  can  help  you  .  .  .  Oh,  Edward,  I  do 
want  to  help  you  !  ' 

'  My  dear  !  '  he  said.  He  kissed  her  cheek 
in  warm  brotherly  fashion.  '  We  shall  be  very 
happy  together,  you  and  I.'  He  took  her 
hand  in  his. 

For  a  moment  they  contemplated  this  pro- 
spective happiness  without  speaking.  The 
gong  summoned  them  to  dinner. 

Sheila  accompanied  Edward  into  the  house 
with  a  numbed  feeling  in  one  corner  of  her 
mind.  She  could  not  banish  a  vague  half- 
formed  doubt  that  had  crept  into  the  heart  of 
her  new  happiness.  There  was  so  much  that 
was  fine,  so  much  that  was  bracing,  about  her 
relationship  with  Edward,  and  she  told  herself 
that  this  lurking  discontent  was  mere  perversity. 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        253 

A  feeling  of  comradeliness  struggled  with  a 
sense  of  chill.  She  was  to  be  his  friend,  his 
wife,  the  partner  of  his  life's  work  ;  they  were 
intellectually  in  tune  :  what  more  could  she 
ask  of  life  ?  What  was  this  secret  craving  for 
tenderness,  for  romance,  but  a  foolish  lapse 
into  the  sentimental  dreaming  of  her  school- 
days ?  Edward  offered  her  in  abundance  what 
that  boy-lover  Kay  Wilton  had  been  so  con- 
spicuously unable  to  offer  :  the  sympathy  of 
an  alert  mind.  Sympathy  and  comradeship- 
were  not  these  the  fairest  flowers  of  life  ?  The 
rest  were  gaudy  hothouse  plants,  nurtured  in 
an  artificial  warmth  and  unable  to  endure 
the  healthy  rigours  of  continual  daily  in- 
timacy. 

She  tried  by  such  reflections  to  still  the 
whispering  voice  within  her  ;  nevertheless  she 
was  not  herself  during  dinner,  and  it  was  with 
a  catch  of  the  breath,  afterwards,  that  she 
heard  Edward  announce  their  betrothal  to  his 
parents.  Stated  coldly,  the  compact  had  the 
terrifying  air  of  something  irrevocable.  She 
controlled  with  effort  an  impulse  to  flee  from 
the  room. 

Mrs.  Fairfield  was  exclamatory  and  encourag- 
ing, and  Mr.  Fairfield  vaguely  echoed  his  wife's 
expressions  of  pleasure.  Mrs.  Fairfield  opened 
her  plump  arms  and  wrapped  them  round 


254        THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

Sheila  as  though  taking  permanent  possession 
of  her. 

'  My  dear  Sheila  ! '  she  exclaimed.  '  A  new 
daughter  for  me  !  * 

From  that  capacious  and  efficient  embrace 
Sheila  emerged  with  a  sense  of  having  been 
rescued  from  a  yawning  gulf.  The  one  thought 
in  her  mind  was  that  she  did  not  wish  to  be 
a  daughter  to  Mrs.  Fairfield.  She  felt  that 
Edward's  mother  would  as  readily  take,  if  she 
could,  the  globe  itself  into  that  large  embrace, 
and  exult  greedily  in  her  newly-acquired  pro- 
perty, like  a  child  with  a  big  ball  that  it  may 
bounce  to  its  heart's  content. 

'  Now  that  is  nice  ! '  said  Mr.  Fairfield.  '  Very 
pleasant  arrangement  indeed  !  Well,  well  ! ' 

A  diversion  was  created  by  the  entry  of 
Bunny.  He  tried  to  conceal  an  air  of  desperate 
purpose  under  the  affectation  of  breeziness. 

*  Hullo,  by  Jove  !  '  he  exclaimed.     '  How 
are  you,  Mrs.  Fairfield  ?     How  are  you,  sir  ? 
How   do,    Ted  ?     And   how   are   you,    Miss 
Dyrle  ?     Myself,  I'm  jolly  fine.     Thanks  for 
kind  inquiries.' 

'  That's  a  comfort  anyhow,'  said  Mrs.  Fair- 
field  grimly.  '  You  seem  a  little  upset.' 

*  Upset  !     Me  !  '  cried  Bunny.     He  calmed 
a  little  to  add  :    *  Bit  excited  perhaps.     Got 
some  news  for  you,  Mrs.  Fairfield,' 


THE     HOUSE    AT    MAADI        255 

'  Ha  !  '  The  light  of  triumph  gleamed  in 
Mrs.  Fairfield's  eye.  '  You've  agreed  to  be 
president  of  the  Workers'  Federation  after  all.' 

'  No,  not  exactly.' 

1  You  haven't  ! '  Mrs.  Fairfield  became  the 
picture  of  righteous  indignation.  '  You  refuse 
to  do  a  little  thing  like  that  for  me,  when  your 
name  would  be  so  valuable  to  us  !  ' 

'  It  wouldn't  be  fair  to  my  father.  He's  a 
bit  old-fashioned,  I  dare  say,  but  there  it  is. 
He  can't  help  being  an  earl.  He  makes 
rather  a  point  of  my  not  getting  too  deep  in 
the  movement.' 

The  Honourable  Richard  Bunnard  stood  on 
one  toe  and  twirled  once  round  to  assure  every 
one  that  he  was  perfectly  at  ease. 

*  Please  don't  fidget,  Bunny,  when  you're 
talking  to  me,  even  though  I  am  only  an  old 
woman.     Once  again  I  ask  you,  and  for  the 
last  time  :    will  you  do  the  right  thing,  the 
public-spirited  thing  ?  ' 

Bunny  tried  to  soothe  the  exasperated  lady. 

4  My  dear  Mrs.  Fairfield,  I've  already  pro- 
mised my  father.' 

The  storm  burst. 

'  Your  father  !  Fiddlesticks  your  father  ! 
Hypatia's  at  the  bottom  of  this  ! ' 

'  Don't  get  excited,  mother,'  urged  Edward. 

*  I  will,  I  will,'  retorted  his  mother.     '  I've 


256        THE     HOUSE    AT     MAADI 

a  perfect  right  to  get  excited.  You  young 
people,  you've  got  hearts  of  stone.  All  the 
love  we  mothers  lavish  on  you  is  nothing  to 
you.  Do  we  get  any  gratitude  ?  Not  a  bit  ! 
Scorn,  yes,  plenty  of  it  !  Scorn  of  our  grey 
hairs  and  our  silly  ways  and  our  ignorance. 
But  gratitude — the  last  thing  in  the  world. 
.  .  .  Some  chit  of  a  girl  comes  .  .  .' 

Edward  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  cold 
disgust. 

'  Ah  !  '  exclaimed  Mrs.  Fairfield.  There 
was  an  ominous  pause.  Her  husband  rushed 
towards  her. 

'  It's  all  right,  me  dear.  I've  got  you  safe 
and  sound.  Sit  down  and  have  a  bit  of  a  rest.' 

The  afflicted  lady  sighed. 

*  She's  going  to  faint,'  cried  Mr.  Fairfield. 
'  Why  didn't  you  let  her  have  her  way,  you 
young  devils,  you  !  ' 

'  Of  course  she's  going  to  faint,'  said  Edward. 
'  That  is  the  last  scene  of  the  melodrama.' 

Sheila  watched  the  scene  with  a  mixture  of 
indignation  and  compassion.  The  indignation 
was  short-lived  :  it  died  suddenly  at  sight  of 
Edward's  complete  detachment.  He  seemed 
utterly  devoid  of  the  filial  sentiment  that  would 
have  made  allowances  for  his  mother.  For  she 
was,  after  all,  his  mother,  Sheila  reflected. 
She  had  faced  death  to  bring  him  into  the 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        257 

world.  He  was  flesh  of  her  flesh,  bone  of  her 
bone  :  for  him  she  had  spent  herself,  and  he 
was  still  the  centre  of  her  life.  Had  Edward 
shewn  anger,  Sheila  would  have  been  whole- 
heartedly with  him,  but  this  cold  disdain,  this 
resolute  refusal  to  be  stirred  a  hair's  breadth 
either  to  pity  or  to  wrath  seemed  to  Sheila's 
warmer  heart  almost  inhuman,  although  it 
extorted  from  her  an  unwilling  admiration. 

'  I  think  I'd  better  clear  out,'  said  Bunny, 
moving  towards  the  door.  '  Sorry  to  have 
been  the  cause  of  a  disturbance.' 

But  Mrs.  Fairfield's  recovery  was  as  abrupt 
as  her  collapse  had  been.  From  the  arm-chair 
into  which  her  husband  had  placed  her  she 
urged  the  young  man  to  stay. 

'  Don't  go,  Bunny.  I'm  better  now.  It 
was  my  son  upset  me,  not  you.  Come  and 
tell  me  your  news  ? ' 

She  spoke  in  a  languid  faded  tone,  the  tone 
of  one  bearing  bravely  an  immense  burden  of 
wrongs. 

'  Well  .  .  .'  began  Bunny  nervously,  glanc- 
ing towards  Sheila. 

Edward,  intercepting  the  glance,  asked : 
'  Are  we  de  trop^  Bunny  ? ' 

Mr.  Fairfield  intervened.  '  Edward  and 
Miss  Dyrle  have  just  come  to  an  understand- 
ing, Bunny.' 

8.E.  9 


258        THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

'  An  understanding  ?  '  asked  Bunny. 

'  Yes.     Bit  of  sweethearting,  you  know.' 

1  Really  !  '  cried  Bunny,  beaming.  *  I  con- 
gratulate you.  Well,  that  makes  it  easier  for 
me.  There'll  be  a  double  event.' 

'  A  what  ?  '  demanded  Mrs.  Fairfield,  all 
the  languor  gone  from  her. 

'  You  see,'  Bunny  explained,  '  I'm  engaged 
to  be  married.' 

'  Well  I  declare  ! '  said  Mr.  Fairfield. 
'  Engaged  !  Why,  everybody's  getting  en- 
gaged. Time  we  set  about  it,  mother, 
eh?' 

Edward  made  a  congratulatory  noise.  Only 
Mrs.  Fairfield  was  silent,  watching  Bunny  with 
feline  intentness. 

'  Well,'  she  said  sharply.  '  Who's  the  young 
lady,  Bunny  ?  ' 

Bunny,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  agi- 
tating a  bunch  of  keys,  stood  first  on  one  leg 
and  then  on  the  other. 

*  That  was  what  I  came  for,'  he  said,  blush- 
ing, *  to  ask  your  blessing,  don't  you  know. 
You  see,  Hypatia  .  .  .' 

'  Yes,'  said  Mrs.  Fairfield  curtly.  '  What 
about  Hypatia  ?  ' 

Even  the  amiable  Bunny  had  not  unlimited 
patience. 

'  Hypatia  ? '  he  said.     '  Well,  nothing  about 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        259 

her.  You  asked  me  who  was  the  young  lady. 
I've  told  you.' 

'  Hypatia  !  '  demanded  Mrs.  Fairfield. 

'  Exactly,'  answered  Bunny,  and  strode  out 
of  the  room. 

4  Herbert  !  '  cried  Mrs.  Fairfield  to  her 
husband.  'Go  after  him.  At  once.  Hypatia 
shan't  have  him.  She  shan't!  ' 

'  You'd  better  faint  again,  mother,'  remarked 
Edward...  % 

'  Oh,  Edward,  how  can  you  ! '  cried  Sheila, 
stung  to  speech. 

She  beckoned  him  to  the  bay  window,  as 
Mrs.  Fairfield  followed  her  husband  to  the 
door. 

'  Edward,'  Sheila  said,  '  are  you  sure  you 
want  me  ? ' 

He  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  '  You  know 
I  do/ 

Sheila  felt  that  her  question  needed  an 
apology.  '  It's  only  that  I  hate  to  cause  a 
fuss.  Your  mother  does  loathe  me,  I'm  sure.' 

He  took  both  her  hands  in  his  for  a  moment. 
'  Sheila,  you're  not  going  to  forsake  me,  are 
you  ?  ' 

'  Not  ...  if  you  really  care,'  she  answered 
in  a  low  voice.  ( 

Mrs.  Fairfield  from  the  passage  stepped  back 
into  the  room. 


26o        THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

'  Children  ! '  she  muttered,  regarding  the 
lovers  with  malevolence,  '  children  .  .  .  no, 
vipers  ! ' 

Her  husband  returned,  followed  by  Bunny 
wrapped  in  his  dignity  and  by  Hypatia  armed 
with  invincible  placidity. 

*  Now  understand  this,'  began  Mrs.  Fair- 
field.  '  We  old  folk  refuse  to  be  ignored.  We 
just  won't  put  up  with  this  insulting  behaviour. 
You  think  we  don't  count,  but  we'll  see. 
Bunny,  let's  hear  no  more  of  this  nonsense 
about  marrying  Hypatia.  You  shall  not  marry 
her.  You're  a  young  snob.  And  Sheila 
shan't  marry  my  Edward  either.  I  won't  be 
robbed  of  my  children  by  young  stuck-up 
creatures  who  despise  me  and  my  husband 
because  we're  in  trade.' 

'  What  a  wicked  lie  ! '  exclaimed  Sheila, 
with  flashing  eyes.  '  You  know  we  don't 
despise  you  !  Everybody's  parents  are  in 
trade  .  .  .  except  Bunny's,  I  suppose.' 

'  Herbert  !  .  .  .  Edward  !  Will  you  stand 
here  and  hear  this  girl  call  your  mother  a 
wicked  liar  ?  ' 

'  Where  do  you  want  me  to  stand  ? '  enquired 
Edward.  '  Besides,  I'm  not  Sheila's  controller. 
I'm  not  even  her  parent.' 

'  You  will  leave  my  son  alone,'  said  Mrs. 
Fairfield,  struggling  with  her  rising  passion. 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        261 

'  Marry  the  Honourable  Richard,  if  you  want 
to  marry.' 

'  But  that  would  still  leave  Edward  and 
Hypatia  unmarried,'  objected  Bunny,  lapsing 
into  weak  humour.  '  They  can't  marry  each 
other,  you  know.' 

'  And  you  leave  Hypatia  alone  ! '  Hypatia's 
mother  turned  upon  Bunny.  '  I'll  make  father 
disinherit  them  both  if  they  disobey  me.' 

*  Is  that  all  you  have  to  say,  mother  ? '  asked 
Hypatia,  with  the  patient  smile  of  the  Christian 
Scientist. 

'  No,  it  is  not  .  .  .' 

'  Well,  it's  quite  enough,'  Hypatia  assured 
her.  '  Come  along,  Bunny.  Come  and  buy 
the  licence.' 

Without  a  word,  the  young  man  followed 
Hypatia  out  of  the  room. 

The  flame  of  battle  was  awake  now  in 
Sheila's  heart,  burning  away  all  lingering  reluc- 
tance, all  doubts  and  fears.  If  there  was  to 
be  a  feud,  there  was  no  doubt  upon  which 
side  she  would  fight.  Age  had  declared  war 
upon  Youth,  and  all  the  spirit  in  her  woke 
to  the  challenge.  Edward,  her  comrade,  was 
being  threatened  with  disinheritance.  Sheila 
knew  now  that  she  was  irrevocably  his  :  a  hint 
of  doubt  would  have  been  shameful  treason. 
She  forgot  the  cold  formality  of  his  attitude  to 


262        THE     HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

his  mother  :  she  remembered  only  his  strength, 
his  glorious  unyielding  strength. 

'  Look  here,  mother,'  Edward  was  saying, 
'  you'll  have  to  readjust  your  ideas  a  little.' 
He  waved  aside  a  hysterical  interruption. 

*  No,  it's  no  use  indulging  in  heroics  :    your 
storming  only  makes  me  tired.     Storm  in  a 
teacup,  that's  all.     Listen  to  me.' 

Mrs.  Fairfield  turned  her  back  on  him. 

'  Yes,  listen  like  that,  if  you  wish.  It's 
extraordinarily  rude,  but  never  mind.  I  was 
saying  that  you've  got  to  readjust  your  ideas  a 
little.  They're  about  a  hundred  years  behind 
the  times.  We  young  people,  as  you  call  us, 
have  as  much  right  to  live  as  you,  and  as  much 
right  to  freedom.' 

His  mother  wheeled  round  swiftly.  '  Free- 
dom !  You've  had  too  much  freedom  ! ' 

'  Please    don't    interrupt,'    said    Edward. 

*  There's    been    quite    enough    shouting    and 
stamping.     I  want  you  to  reason  the  thing  out 
calmly.     Freedom  consists  in  being  left  alone, 
left  with  room  to  grow,  not  in  being  penned 
round  with  affection  and  told  every  minute  of 
the  day  that  of  course  we  can  do  as  we  like 
if  we  don't  love  mother  and  father.' 

'  You're  hitting  too  hard,'  whispered  Sheila. 

*  You  think,'  Edward  continued,  '  because 

you've  born  and  bred  us  and  sacrificed  your- 


THE     HOUSE    AT     MAADI        263 

self  for  us  that  Hypatia  and  I  belong  to 
you.' 

'  Oh  no,  you  don't  belong  to  me,'  said  Mrs. 
Fairfield  in  fierce  sarcasm.  '  I'm  only  your 
mother  :  that's  all.' 

'  Precisely,'  said  Edward.  '  Our  mother, 
not  our  owner.  We  belong  to  nobody.  We 
have  our  separate  lives  to  live,  and  we  intend 
to  live  them  in  our  own  way.' 

'  You're  mine,  mine,  mine  !  '  protested  his 
mother.  '  Don't  you  feel  any  common  grati- 
tude for  what  I've  done  for  you  ?  I  gave  you 
life  ;  I  fed  you  with  my  body  ;  and  now — is 
this  the  end  ?  ' 

'  Those  are  services  that  cannot  be  repaid,' 
he  answered,  without  any  trace  of  emotion. 
*  If  in  return  for  what  you  did  for  me  I  had 
to  submit  to  be  your  doll  for  ever,  it  were 
better  that  I  had  not  been  born  at  all.' 

'  Brutal,  brutal  !  '  interjected  his  father, 
waking  from  a  spell  of  bewilderment. 

'  Perhaps,'  conceded  Edward,  '  but  it's 
nature.  Nature  is  brutal.  Do  you  think  that 
because  you  gave  me  life,  as  you  say,  that  you 
have  the  right  to  take  it  away,  or  smother  it, 
or  confine  it,  at  your  pleasure  ?  You  shut 
your  eyes  to  logical  inference.  See  to  what 
absurd  conclusions  your  wild  unreasoning 
would  lead  you  if  you  dared  follow  it  to  the 


264        THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

end.  Time  and  again  civilization  has  been 
hindered  in  its  march  .  .  .' 

For  a  moment  Sheila  ceased  her  loyal  silent 
applause  to  ask  herself  :  Why  does  Edward 
talk  like  a  parliamentary  candidate  ?  But  Mrs. 
Fairfield  quickly  distracted  her  attention  from 
that  question. 

4  I  see,'  she  said,  '  I'm  nothing  to  you.  I'm 
only  your  mother.  This  bit  of  a  girl,  who's 
done  nothing  for  you,  whom  you've  known 
ten  minutes,  is  more  to  you  than  your  mother 
is.' 

Edward  assented  gravely.  '  So  much  more 
than  I  propose  to  live  with  her  and  not  with 
you.  You  were  a  bit  of  a  girl  yourself  once, 
mother.  If  father  had  been  more  devoted  to 
his  mother  than  to  you,  you  might  have  been 
a  childless  spinster  at  this  moment.' 

'  Now  then,'  said  Mr.  Fairfield,  briskly 
asserting  himself.  *  We've  had  about  enough 
of  this.  Mother's  had  her  say.  And  you've 
had  yours.  You've  got  the  gift  of  the  gab 
all  right.  Now  just  you  cut  along  and  leave 
your  mother  alone.' 

'  Herbert,  he  shan't  have  a  penny  of  your 
money  !  '  Mrs.  Fairfield  turned  confidently 
to  her  husband  for  ratification  of  this  threat. 
'  Tell  him  so.' 

'  We'll  see.    We'll  see.     I'm  not  dead  yet,' 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        265 

said  the  little  man,  with  unwonted  indepen- 
dence. '  I  hadn't  any  pennies  myself  when  I 
was  his  age.' 

His  wife  turned  upon  him  'a  terrible  Et 
tu  Brute  look. 

'  Never  you  mind,'  he  retorted,  with  incredible 
courage.  '  There's  sense  in  what  the  lad  says, 
even  though  he  is  a  bit  of  a  hard  nut.  Gets 
that  from  his  father  perhaps.' 

'  His  father  ! '  cried  the  mother  in  scorn. 
'  They're  their  mother's  children,  both  of  them. 
Else  they'd  never  dare  to  treat  me  like  this.' 

There  was  pride  as  well  as  anger  in  the 
glance  she  flashed  at  Edward  as  she  gathered 
up  her  skirts  and  rustled  out  of  the  room. 


PART    THE    THIRD 

Sheila  Fairfield 


ALL  roads  led  to  Edward  Fairfield.  His 
atheism,  his  sister,  Aunt  Hester's 
opposition,  all  conspired  to  fling  Sheila  into 
the  polite  dispassionate  arms  of  that  rational 
young  graduate  from  Cambridge.  Kay  had 
offered  romance  without  intellectual  comrade- 
ship :  Edward  offered  a  kind  of  business 
partnership  in  the  propagation  of  rational 
atheology,  and  this  proved  an  irresistible  bait 
for  a  spirited  girl  hustled  by  disaster  into 
premature  cynicism.  Edward  concerns  us  no 
further,  save  that  he  married  her,  respected 
her,  and  practised  upon  her  the  editorials  that 
appeared  week  by  week  in  his  own  paper 
The  Iconoclast.  Everything  that  he  did  was  in 
perfect  taste  and  supported  by  a  perfect  reason. 
When,  for  example,  she  declared  their  marriage 
a  failure,  he  provided  her  with  a  pair  of  admir- 

266 


THE     HOUSE    AT     MAADI        267 

able  rooms  in  his  own  well-appointed  house, 
and  lived  thereafter  in  contented  celibacy.  He 
was  just  to  the  point  of  inhumanity  ;  but  she, 
a  disappointed  woman,  was  not  just.  The 
efficient  elegance  of  her  home  afflicted  her. 
It  seemed  a  mere  piece  of  machinery  for  the 
daily  manufacture  of  well-bred  happiness.  Her 
two  rooms,  until  she  had  transformed  them, 
seemed  sleek,  complacent  :  they  announced 
to  her,  with  the  patient  smile  and  in  the  incisive 
tones  of  a  secularist  lecturer,  the  supremacy 
of  Reason.  In  herself,  reason  was  far  from 
supreme. 

A  woman  with  love  must  bestow  it  some- 
where :  Sheila  poured  it  without  stint  upon 
her  dream  of  Kay.  Ten  years  divided  them, 
and  more,  before  that  dream  was  finally  de- 
stroyed. Sophie,  his  wife,  gave  birth  to  a  child, 
and  Sheila,  impelled  by  who  knows  what 
medley  of  motives,  visited  her.  They  sat  and 
talked  about  nothing  in  a  room  pervaded  by 
yellow.  A  pale-brown  flower  perpetuated  itself 
at  intervals  on  the  walls  ;  a  small  occasional 
table  set  in  the  middle  of  a  dark  yellowish 
carpet  was  covered  by  a  buff  cloth  ;  a  gilt- 
framed  oval  mirror  surmounted  the  mantel- 
piece. There  were  photographs  on  the  mantel- 
piece of  Sophie's  father,  of  Sophie's  child,  of 
Sophie,  and  one  of  Kay  standing  stiffly  with  a 


268        THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

book  in  his  hand — a  cruel  photograph,  courage- 
ously signed  by  the  photographer.  Sheila  gave 
no  second  glance  to  it. 

She  interrupted  a  remark  of  Sophie's  about 
the  chapel  Dorcas  Society  by  saying,  *  Oh  I 
forgot  to  ask — you  don't  mind  Bernard  being 
here,  do  you  ? ' 

'  Bernard  ?  '     Sophie  was  mystified. 

Sheila  pointed  to  the  Irish  terrier  that  was 
frisking  round  her. 

A  little  ripple  of  merriment  came  from 
Sophie. 

'  Do  you  call  the  dog  Bernard  ?  How 
funny  !  I  love  dogs,  but  father  doesn't  care 
for  them  .  .  .  But  of  course  he  won't  mind 
yours,'  she  added  hastily. 

Sheila  tried  to  puzzle  out  how  Mr.  Dewick 
could  even  have  a  chance  of  objecting  to  her 
dog,  but  just  then  a  diversion  was  created  by 
the  entry  of  a  rather  plump  old-young  man  in  a 
morning  coat  rubbing  his  hands  together  and 
making  an  indeterminate  noise  in  a  vague 
endeavour  to  be  hospitable.  He  wore  a  little 
brown  moustache  and  short  side-whiskers  near 
the  ears.  His  hair  had  receded  consider- 
ably, more  especially  where  the  parting 
was,  and  had  left  an  expanse  of  shining 
brow. 

'  Well,   well,'  he  said,   nervously  cheerful. 


THE     HOUSE    AT     MAADI        269 

*  How  are  you  after  all  this  while  ?  I'm  sure 
we're  very  pleased.' 

Sheila  recognized  him  instantly,  although 
there  seemed  indeed  nothing  of  the  old  Kay 
left  to  recognize.  Yet  this  was  Kay.  This 
was  he  who  years  ago  under  the  moon  had  whis- 
pered to  her,  with  eyes  full  of  dreams,  his 
boyish  love.  Shades  of  the  meeting-house 
had  closed  on  that  boy  for  ever. 

Almost  sick  with  disappointment,  she  shook 
hands  with  him,  and  quickly  sought  refuge 
in  responding  to  the  terrier's  still  frantic 
demonstrations. 

'  I  hope  you  like  my  dog,'  she  remarked 
to  Kay,  shy  of  using  his  name. 

'  Yes,  yes,  fine  fellow,'  responded  Kay. 
4  Come  on,  good  dog,  good  dog  ! ' 

He  patted  the  dog  awkwardly. 

'  We  call  him  Bernard,'  explained  Sheila, 
afraid  of  the  smallest  hiatus.  '  George  Ber- 
nard, because  he's  Irish  and  vivacious.' 

Kay  looked  puzzled.  '  But  why  ...  do 
you  call  him  George  Bernard  ?  I  didn't  quite 
catch  .  .  .' 

'  After  Shaw,  you  know,'  Sheila  explained. 
'  We  suspect  Bernard  of  having  been  a  dis- 
tinguished playwright  in  a  previous  incarna- 
tion.' 

'  Oh  I  see  !  '  said  Kay,  his  brow  clearing. 


270        THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

But  it  was  knitted  again  the  next  moment. 

'  What  was  it  the  Reverend  Aitken  was 
saying  about  Shaw  last  Sunday,  mother  ?  ' 

'  I  remember  something,'  Sophie  answered. 
'  I  think  he  said  he  was  a  mountaineer,  didn't 
he?' 

*  Mountaineer,'  murmured  Kay.  '  I  think 
not.  Ah  no,  mountebank  !  That  was  the 
word.' 

Here  Sheila  joined  the  conversation  in  a 
mildly  argumentative  vein,  but  Kay  sidetracked 
by  waxing  indignant  over  the  attempted 
introduction  of  a  liturgy  into  divine  service. 
He  had  set  his  face  against  that^  he  assured 
them  :  every  true  nonconformist  at  the  church 
meeting  had  set  his  face  against  that,  and  right 
feeling  had  ultimately  triumphed  over  the 
incipient  popery.  It  appeared  indeed  that  the 
cosmos  was  being  conducted  in  an  entirely 
proper  manner,  except  for  the  wanton  behaviour 
of  the  east  wind.  He  considered  the  east  wind 
very  dangerous.  He  became  impressive  and 
told  a  long  story  about  a  man  of  his  acquain- 
tance who  ventured  out  in  an  east  wind  without 
his  overcoat,  caught  a  chill,  developed  pneu- 
monia, and  had  to  take  to  his  bed. 

'  Dead  in  a  week  !  '  finished  Kay,  dramati- 
cally and  with  relish. 

Except  for  an   appreciative    murmur  from 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        271 

his  wife,  the  story  was  received  in  silence. 
Sheila  with  a  stunned  sensation  was  telling 
herself  :  *  I  would  never  have  let  him  get  like 
this.'  But  Kay,  misinterpreting  the  silence, 
began  another  story.  It  concerned  another 
man  who  ventured  out  in  an  east  wind  without 
his  overcoat.  This  man  had  a  similar  series  of 
adventures,  his  experience  differing  from  the 
first  man's  only  in  that  he  lingered  for  two 
days  and  then  died,  leaving  a  widow  and  five 
children.  Kay  could  not  remember  whether 
there  were  three  boys  and  two  girls,  or  three 
girls  and  two  boys.  He  began  naming  them 
on  his  fingers.  There  were  Horace  and 
George,  Margaret  and  Vera.  That  made 
four.  He  was  sure  there  was  another  one — 
he  remembered  the  child  perfectly  as  a  baby, 
but  he  could  not  for  the  life  of  him  recall  its 
sex.  He  felt  sure  that  its  name  began  with 
F. 

He  became  perplexed. 

'  Mother,  can't  you  remember  ?  '  he  asked. 
The  question  was  an  accusation. 

'  Remember  what,  dear  ?  '  inquired  Sophie 
in  her  gentle  way. 

4  The  name  of  Tomlinson's  youngest.  You 
remember  Tomlinson.' 

'  I  don't  believe  I  do,'  said  Sophie. 

Sheila  sat  silent,  limp  under  the  burden  of 


272        THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

her  disillusionment.  She  felt  something  like 
fear  when  Sophie,  with  a  rapturous  cry,  '  She's 
awake  ! ',  rose  and  darted  from  the  room  to 
fetch  her  little  girl.  To  hide  her  nervousness 
she  said,  '  Such  an  unusual  name  you  gave 
her,  didn't  you  ?  What  made  you  think  of 
Robina  ? ' 

While  Kay  was  losing  himself  in  explana- 
tions Sophie  came  back,  leading  her  baby 
daughter  by  the  hand.  The  mother's  face  was 
shining. 

*  Oh  !  '  A  passionate  cry  broke  from  Sheila. 
In  a  moment  she  was  on  her  knees  gazing 
with  adoration  at  the  flaxen-haired,  elf-like 
child.  For  from  the  big  dreaming  eyes  her 
vanished  Kay  looked  at  her  ;  the  wonderful 
boy  dead  and  buried  in  a  prematurely  old 
man,  lived  again  in  this  two-year  old  girl. 
Hungrily  Sheila  kissed  the  tiny  face  .  .  .  and 
once  again  she  felt  his  arm  about  her  and  heard 
his  boyish  whispers. 

'  Oh,  give  her  to  me  !  '  she  cried,  looking 
up  over  the  child's  head  at  its  father. 

Kay's  face  lit  up. 

'  I've  got  it  now.  I  remember,'  he  said 
triumphantly. 

'  What  ? '  asked  Sophie,  troubled  by  Sheila's 
emotion,  and  yet  gratified  by  it. 

'  Why,'  said  Kay,  '  the  name  of  Tomlinson's 


THE     HOUSE    AT    MAADI        273 

youngest.     It   was    Freddie.     I    told   you    it 
began  with  an  F.' 

He  looked  round  with  modest  pride,  and 
was  surprised  to  see  Sheila  burst  into  tears. 

So  that  was  the  solution  of  the  problem. 
The  beauty  of  life  was  only  for  the  young, 
the  very  young.  In  a  child's  heart  and 
nowhere  else  the  kingdom  of  heaven  was  to 
be  found,  a  frail  gossamer  thing  vanishing 
with  the  years.  This  was  the  common  lot  : 
by  contact  with  the  world  to  rub  the  down  of 
paradise  off  our  souls,  to  grow  drab  and  dull  in 
spirit,  drab  and  dull  in  mind,  even  before  that 
waning  of  physical  strength  which  alone  could 
assuage  the  bitterness  of  the  process.  In 
Kay  youth  had  died  ;  in  Edward — Edward 
had  never  been  young  ;  but  in  herself  youth 
lived  and  craved  more  life.  Yes,  it  lived 
still,  but  now  it  was  stricken  and  dying. 

It  flashed  upon  her  then  that  she  too  could 
renew  her  youth.  In  a  child  she  could  live 
again. 

But  a  child  had  been  denied  her. 

She  deemed  her  life  to  be  already  virtually 
finished.  She  would  age  from  this  moment  : 
after  a  brief  fever  her  mind  would  dim  and 
even  the  desire  for  beauty  would  sink  into 
oblivion.  She  tried  to  hope  it  would  be  soon, 


S.E. 


274        THE     HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

but  the  struggling  youth  in  her  cried  out  against 
the  hope. 


The  struggling  youth  in  her  cried  out,  and, 
years  later,  the  cry  was  answered.  Beauty 
became  incarnated  in  the  person  of  Stephen 
Redshawe,  whose  son  she  later  encountered  in 
the  house  at  Maadi.  The  past  rose  in  sad 
loveliness,  enveloping  her  with  the  fragrance 
of  pressed  flowers  ;  but  of  all  the  memories 
that  surged  in  her,  this  one  alone  broke  in 
pitiless  splendour  over  her  consciousness. 
In  that  moment  Stephen  Redshawe  lived  again, 
less  as  a  man  and  a  lover  than  as  a  gleam,  an 
ecstasy,  a  chord  of  divine  music,  a  symbol  of 
all  that  she  had  longed  for  and  lost.  Other 
things  she  could  recall  minutely,  but  Stephen 
remained  a  vague  splendour.  She  recalled 
how,  in  her  little  cottage  near  Mundesley,  she 
had  waited  for  his  promised  coming  ;  how 
she  had  looked  again  and  again,  in  wonder,  to 
find  in  her  mirror  the  face  he  had  called  lovely. 
It  was  a  face  ravaged  less  by  her  thirty-three 
years  than  by  discontent.  His  sisters  and  his 
mother  she  remembered  only  as  so  many 
bundles  of  feminine  hostility.  They  dis- 
approved of  her,  and  no  wonder  :  was  she 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        275 

not  a  married  woman,  holiday-making  alone, 
who  yet  suffered  gladly  the  admiration  of  an 
infatuated  boy  ?  They  called  her  adventuress, 
no  doubt,  and  she,  even  in  the  midst  of  the 
adventure,  made  allowances  for  them.  She 
had  neither  the  strength  nor  the  will  to  re- 
nounce the  fairest  gift  that  life  offered. 

'  May  I  come  in  ?  '  Stephen's  tall  figure  filled 
the  doorway. 

*  You  must,'  Sheila  answered,  with  a  smile. 

*  I'm  not  going  to   give  you  any  tea  while 
you   stand  there  keeping  the  sunshine  out.' 

'  This  is  our  last  meeting,'  blundered 
Stephen.  '  I  want  to  tell  you.  .  .  .' 

Suddenly  dreading  to  hear  the  words  for 
which  she  longed,  Sheila  fended  them  away. 

*  Eat  your  pretty  cake,'  she  admonished  him. 

After  tea  they  went  out  into  the  sandy 
paddock  and  talked  for  an  hour  of  indifferent 
things,  of  trains,  of  luggage,  of  books  and 
bad  music  .  .  .  until  a  stillness  fell,  heralding 
dusk.  Evening  became  personal  and  urgent 
to  enfold  them  :  they  could  hear  in  the  wash 
of  the  water,  rhythmically  plashing  the  sand, 
the  rise  and  fall  of  her  bosom  ;  they  could  feel 
her  breath  sweeter  than  apples  in  the  autumn 
air.  And  all  the  skies  that  during  the  past 
weeks  of  stolen  companionship  they  had  seen 
together,  all  the  tides  they  had  watched  moving 


276        THE    HOUSE     AT    MAADI 

upon  the  shore,  became  fused  with  that  sky, 
with  that  tide  ;  all  the  hours  of  their  comrade- 
ship were  gathered  up  into  that  hour.  They 
surrendered  themselves  to  the  embracing  arms 
of  silence. 

To  Sheila  it  was  as  if  infinity  had  been 
spilled  into  time  :  the  moments  throbbed 
by,  brimming  with  beauty,  until  the  silence 
that  these  two  guarded  became  a  music,  a 
poem,  a  flower  of  loveliness.  It  was  a  flower 
that  budded  and  blossomed  till  their  vision 
dimmed  with  the  glory  of  it,  a  flower  that 
burst  and  fell  scattering  pollen  and  perfume. 

He  bent  towards  her,  with  cheeks  flaming. 
'  You  know,  don't  you  ? '  he  said,  and  for  a 
moment  could  not  go  on.  To  Sheila  life  was 
become  exquisitely  unreal,  a  work  of  art.  '  You 
must  know,'  he  said  brokenly,  '  that  I  adore 
you.' 

Compassionately  she  laid  her  cool  hand  on 
his. 

'  Yes,'  she  said,  in  a  low  tone  tenderly 
soothing. 

'  Ah  ! '  His  breath  fluttered.  She  gave 
him  her  trembling  lips. 

They  kissed,  first,  like  boy  and  girl,  timidly  ; 
then  like  comrades  united  after  a  long  parting  ; 
again,  and  a  red  splendour  flamed  through 
the  throbbing  world.  He  lifted  her  into  his 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        277 

arms,  and  divine  madness  seized  her.  He 
carried  her  with  strong  unfaltering  stride  into 
the  house. 

And  this  day,  which  they  had  called  the  end, 
was  really  the  beginning.  She  returned  on 
the  morrow  to  Edward's  house  and  confided 
to  her  husband  that  she  wished  him  to  divorce 
her.  Edward  listened  patiently,  like  the  dis- 
interested friend  he  was  ;  but  his  disinterested- 
ness made  her  pride  wince,  and  the  old  hated 
surroundings  were  bleak  about  her.  Yet  on 
that  night  of  her  return,  in  the  sanctuary  of 
her  bedroom,  she  undressed  with  a  new  joy. 
She  stood  nude  before  the  wardrobe  mirror 
and  gazed  with  awe  upon  the  pure  rounded 
loveliness  of  her  own  form.  She  stroked 
gently  her  white  velvet  skin.  Her  body,  so 
long  disdained,  had  become  sacred  to  her 
again.  As  she  laid  her  head,  that  kingdom 
of  heaven,  upon  her  pillow,  and  murmured 
Stephen's  name,  Stephen  himself,  in  a  suburb 
fourteen  miles  away,  posted  his  weekly  letter 
to  the  girl — no  adventuress,  she — who  was  to 
become  his  wife  and  the  mother  of  his  only 
son.  For  Stephen,  too,  was  back  in  the  old 
routine,  enfolded  and  pressed  close  to  the 
bosom  of  his  family,  conscious  of  his  mother's 
eyes  watching  him  with  an  angry  solicitude. 
Not  without  a  struggle  did  he  succumb.  To 


278        THE     HOUSE    AT     MAADI 

Grace,  whose  pretty  simplicity  no  longer  held 
him,  he  hinted  dire  things  ;  but  at  the  first 
gesture  of  suffering  from  her  he  winced,  and 
surrendered.  And  he  wrote  to  Sheila  in  his 
best  literary  style.  She  carried  the  letter,  as 
she  had  carried  its  predecessors,  into  the 
summer-house,  that  she  might  commune  with 
her  lover  undisturbed. 

'  Darling,'  she  read,  '  the  thought  of  how  I 
must  hurt  you  is  hell  to  me.' 

She  caught  her  breath,  looked  once  upon 
the  sky,  and  then  bent  her  eyes  again  to  receive 
the  blow.  .  .  . 

With  mind  benumbed  she  looked  up  from 
the  fastidious  caligraphy  to  find  Stephen 
himself  standing,  like  a  whipped  dog,  before 
her.  For  a  moment  they  strangely  stared. 

*  Why  have  you  come  ? ' 

He  broke  out  into  self-pity.  '  Oh,  I  can't 
bear  it.  Don't  for  God's  sake  look  like  that. 
...  I  couldn't  leave  you  without  a  word  from 
your  lips.' 

She  tried  to  harden  her  heart.  '  Is  that 
all  ?  ' 

His  hands  made  a  helpless  gesture.  '  I'm 
such  a  despicable  coward.  I've  lived  always 
among  dreams.  Real  life  is  too  hard  for  me — 
I'd  be  better  dead.' 

'  Why  have  you  come  ? '  she  asked.     '  Have 


THE     HOUSE    AT    MAADI        279 

you  anything  to  add  to  this?'  She  held 
out  his  letter.  'Why  not  leave  it  at 
that  ?  ' 

'  I  had  to  see  you,'  he  said.  '  I  had  to  ask 
your  forgiveness.  I  hoped  to  get  here  before 
that  thing.  Oh,  how  detestable  I  am  ! ' 

He  dropped  on  to  the  seat  beside  her  and 
sat,  hunched  and  shaking,  a  figure  of  desolation. 

'  Never  mind,'  said  Sheila  firmly.  '  Don't 
cry  over  spilt  milk.  You're  quite  free  now 
to  go  back  to  her.  And  you've  done  me  no 
harm.' 

He  stammered  in  amazement.  '  You  can 
say  that  !  Don't  you  see  how  contemptible 
I  am  !  I  would  like  to  kill  myself  ! ' 

He  brooded  on  that  thought.  Death  was 
the  only  escape  from  his  own  insufferable 
egoism.  Then  he  began  to  perceive  that  he 
was  extracting  enjoyment  even  from  the  savour 
of  his  own  self-loathing.  He  was  rolling  the 
bitterness  round  on  his  tongue  till  it  had  a 
certain  sweetness  for  him.  He  was  indulging 
in  an  orgy  of  painful  emotions  that  was  delicious 
to  the  very  egoism  it  wounded.  He  was 
discovering  hitherto  unplumbed  depths  in  his 
nature  and  being  fascinated  by  the  stupendous 
spectacle  of  his  own  soul's  suffering.  And 
he  knew  that  the  experience  was  far  too 
morbidly  interesting  to  drive  him  to  suicide. 


z8o        THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

The  perception  of  his  self-pity  afflicted 
Sheila  with  a  new  and  more  sickening  pain. 
Something  of  this  change  must  have  been 
visible  in  her  face,  for  with  a  manifest  effort 
he  became  calm,  and  began  speaking  in  more 
normal  tones. 

'  Perhaps  we  shall  be  glad  afterwards,'  he 
said  slowly.  '  The  scandal  would  have  killed 
my  mother  .  .  .' 

Sheila  winced.  *  Oh,  Stephen,  are  you 
trying  to  make  me  hate  you  ?  Why  did  you 
say  that  ?  .  .  .' 

« Why ' 

1  Why  do  you  talk  in  that  unreal  way  ? 
Why  do  you  pretend  ...  try  at  the  last 
moment  to  blind  me  with  false  pious  reasoning ! ' 

'  But  what  I  said  about  my  mother ' 

'  — Was  false  as  water.  You  didn't  mean 
a  word  of  it.  You  are  too  dreadfully  sorry  for 
yourself  to  care  about  your  mother.  You're 
breaking  faith,  and  because  it  hurts  you  you're 
trying  to  feel  good  about  it.  God  knows  I 
haven't  disputed  your  decision — nor  even 
blamed  you  for  it.  But  now,  please  go  !  ' 

He  rose.     '  I  am  not  to  come  back  ? ' 

*  No,  no.     Go  away.' 
'  But,  Sheila '  ' 

*  Why  will  you  torture  me  so  ?  '  she  cried. 
'  It's  your  own  choice.     If  only  you'd  never 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        281 

come  to-night — it  would  have  been  so  much 
kinder.' 

*  Oh,  I  can't  bear  this  !  '  He  trembled 
towards  her. 

She  rose,  to  confront  him  with  lustreless  eyes. 

'  Are  you  made  of  straw  ?  Can  you  neither 
take  me  nor  leave  me  ?  ...  Good-bye.' 

'  God,  how  you  hate  me  now  ! '  he  murmured, 
as  she  swept  past  him. 

She  paused  to  say  :  '  That  should  be  nothing 
to  you.  But  it's  not  true.  You  have  done 
me  no  harm.  I  had  never  known  happiness 
before  you  came  .  .  .  but,'  she  added,  with 
his  child  in  her  womb,  '  I  shall  soon  forget, 
and  you  will  have  made  no  difference.  None 
at  all.' 

She  stumbled  out  into  the  hateful  sunlight 
and  went,  half-running,  towards  the  house. 


In  Edward's  house,  and  with  Edward's 
bored  approval — for  he  was  busy  at  the  time 
on  a  scathing  history,  of  the  Jesuits — Stephen's 
child  was  born.  And,  in  the  triumph  that 
followed  agony,  the  spirit  of  Sheila  rose  from 
the  dead.  Four  years  later,  determined  to 
purge  herself  of  bitterness,  she  visited  the 
scene  of  her  love.  When  she  entered  the 


282 

paddock  again,  her  silent  but  excited  child  at 
her  side,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  the  sight 
of  the  old  romantic  disorder  that  had  once 
so  charmed  her.  '  These  poppies,'  her  heart 
said,  '  are  children  of  flowers  that  witnessed 
our  love.'  The  paddock  was  shut  in  on  three 
sides  by  a  hedge  of  briar.  In  the  long  rank 
grass  numberless  weeds  had  rioted  unchecked 
for  many  years,  and  the  hand  of  the  picnicker 
lay  heavy  on  the  land.  A  medley  of  docks, 
nettles,  thistles,  poppies,  empty  cigarette  pac- 
kets, paper  bags,  ginger-beer  bottles,  and 
corks,  greeted  Sheila's  eyes.  '  What  a  pickle  ! ' 
she  said. 

'  What  a  lovely  pickle,  Sheila,'  the  little  girl 
echoed.  She  began  collecting  corks  with  the 
solemnity  of  an  elderly  spinster  gathering  a 
cautionary  nosegay  for  a  drunkard's  grave. 
This  was  a  simile  that  Sheila,  gravely  non- 
sensical, suggested  to  Rosemary,  who  with 
perfect  dignity  assented.  '  How  fortunate 
that  Edward  isn't  here  to  be  shocked  by 
my  vulgarity,'  Sheila  thought. 

Entering  the  house  she  found  there  matter 
for  surprise  :  a  greasy  plate,  a  crust  of  bread, 
and  a  breakfast  cup,  caked  with  tannin,  standing 
ankle-deep  in  a  saucer  half-full  of  spilt  tea.  The 
next  moment  Mrs.  Boddy  arrived,  a  little  red 
berry  of  humanity  to  whom  had  been  entrusted 


THE     HOUSE    AT    MAADI        283 

a  duplicate  key  and  the  duty  of  preparing  the 
place  for  habitation. 

'  Oh,  ma'am  ! '  said  Mrs.  Boddy.  '  To 
think  that  you  should  have  got  'ere  before  me, 
without  a  bit  of  tea  ready  or  nothing.'  The 
sight  of  those  inglorious  festal  remains  was  the 
culminating  assault  on  her  feelings.  *  There  ! 
Just  look  at  that.' 

Sheila  nodded,  smiling.  '  Some  one's  been 
here  evidently.  The  question  is,  Who  ?  ' 

'  And  how  ? '  added  Mrs.  Boddy.  '  'Ow  ?  ' 
she  repeated,  by  way  of  emphasis.  *  And  oh,' 
she  cried,  enveloping  Rosemary,  *  here's  the 
dear  little  ducky  duck.  Hasn't  she  got  a  kiss 
for  the  wicked  old  woman  that  didn't  get  her 
mother's  tea  ready  ?  ' 

Having  released  Rosemary,  Mrs.  Boddy 
stood  brooding.  '  There's  been  a  man  here. 
One  of  those  persons  of  the  tramp  class.' 

After  a  moment's  contemplation  of  this 
hypothetical  tramp,  '  It's  not  at  all  nice,'  she 
added,  and  drew  away  from  the  polluted  table. 
*  You  might  be  murdered  in  your  beds.' 

'  Well,  if  one  must  be  murdered,  one  could 
hardly  choose  a  more  comfortable  place,'  said 
Sheila.  '  Let's  try  to  make  a  fire  to  boil 
the  kettle  on,  shall  we  ?  I'm  longing  for  my 
tea.' 

Mrs.    Boddy   became   the   embodiment  of 


284        THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

bustle.     She  shot  out  of  the  house  in  search  of 
dry  sticks  for^the  fire. 

'  And  do  you  know  what  I  would  do  if  I 
were  you,  ma'am  ? '  she  enquired,  reappearing 
after  a  brief  and  successful  forage.  *  I'd  have 
my  tea  and  go  straight  back  to  town.  Straight 
back.  I  wouldn't  stay  another  minute.' 

*  Not  stay  !  '  echoed  Sheila  in  weak  astonish- 
ment.    *  Not  stay  for  a  holiday  ? ' 

'  Not  to  be  murdered,  I  wouldn't.' 
'  After  coming  all  this  way  ?  ' 
1  Not  to  be  murdered,'  repeated  Mrs.  Boddy 
firmly. 

*  But  perhaps  we  shan't  be  murdered.' 

1  You  mark  my  words,'  Mrs.  Boddy  admon- 
ished her. 

Sheila  laughed.  '  I'm  not  going  to  be 
frightened  away  by  a  dirty  cup  and  saucer.' 

'  Well,  let's  hope  for  the  best,'  said  Mrs. 
Boddy,  with  an  unexpected  access  of  cheerful- 
ness. *  And  after  all,  if  anything  nasty  does 
happen,  I'm  not  above  half  a  mile  away,  am 
I?' 

She  emerged,  goggle-eyed,  from  the 
pantry. 

'  And  blest  if  me  lord  haven't  helped  him- 
self to  the  stores  I  got  in  for  you  !  '  she  ex- 
claimed, shrilly  indignant  ;  and  then,  with 
lingering  pathos  :  '  Oh,  ma  am  \  ' 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        285 

After  tea  Mrs.  Boddy  went  home,  and 
Sheila  took  her  child  in  to  the  belittered  paddock, 
and  sat  in  a  deck  chair,  crocheting,  and  watch- 
ing the  shadows  lengthen,  while  Rosemary  in 
her  busily  silent  fashion  wandered  in  the 
long  grasses.  From  time  to  time  the  little 
girl  took  an  occasional  bite  out  of  an  apple 
with  which  Mrs.  Boddy  had  sought  to  win 
her  regard,  until  she  made  a  discovery  that 
sent  her  running  to  her  mother,  somewhat 
sternly  demanding  why  she  had  been  given 
an  apple  from  which  the  cork  had  not  been 
removed.  Later,  the  paddock  was  invaded 
by  a  sleek  brown  dog  with  melancholy  eyes, 
velvet  ears,  and  a  general  air  of  unctuous 
virtue,  with  whom  Rosemary  instantly  made 
friends. 

'  What  a  dear  dog,'  she  said,  returning  to 
Sheila's  chair  after  spending  twenty  minutes 
in  the  company  of  this  engaging  creature. 

'  Yes.  He  seems  at  home  here,'  replied 
Sheila,  thinking  of  Mrs.  Boddy's  tramp. 

'  Of  course  he's  at  home,'  said  the  child  with 
magisterial  emphasis.  '  I  asked  him  to  make 
himself  at  home.  And  he  did.' 

'  How  friendly  of  him.'  Sheila's  eyes  drank 
in  eagerly  the  absurd  delicious  gravity  of 
Rosemary's  thought-puckered  face.  *  I  won- 
der what  his  name  is.' 


286        THE     HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

'  His  name,'  answered  the  child  casually, 
'  is  Poker.'  After  a  pause  she  added  :  '  Poker 
Morgan  his  name  is.  He's  just  come  home 
from  school.'  Sheila  waited  with  becoming 
seriousness  for  further  details  of  Poker  Mor- 
gan's eventful  life.  '  He  goes  to  school  every 
day,'  Rosemary  went  on.  '  Every  day  except 
Sunday.  On  Sunday  he  doesn't  go  to  school, 
he  doesn't.  He  stays  at  home  with  his 
mother.' 

'  How  nice  for  Mrs.  Morgan,'  said  Sheila. 
'  And  what  does  Poker  learn  at  school  ? ' 

'  Oh,  just  lessons  ;  that's  all.'  Rosemary 
dismissed  the  question  with  the  air  of  having 
sufficiently  explained  everything.  '  May  I 
have  another  sponge  finger,  please,  Sheila  ?  ' 

Irresponsibly  light-hearted,  Sheila  retired  to 
bed,  joining  Rosemary  in  the  little  attic  room 
with  the  homicidal  slanting  roof.  She  stood 
for  some  time  at  the  east  window,  bathing  in 
the  moonlight,  and  looking  towards  the  sea 
which  broke  within  twenty  yards  of  the 
crumbling  wall.  The  wind  fluttered  her  night- 
dress. 

Nocturnal  calm  was  abruptly  shattered  by 
a  beer-thickened  voice  uttering  a  passionate 
demand  for  admittance.  Sheila  stepped  quickly 
across  the  room  to  the  western  window. 

*  You  let  me  in  before  yourrurt,'  urged  the 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        287 

voice.  And  Sheila,  leaning  out  of  the  window, 
saw  a  gentleman  in  baggy  corduroys  that  were 
tied  with  string  at  the  knees  peering  up  at  her 
malevolently  from  under  a  huge  cloth  cap. 
The  moon  focussed  her  light  upon  his  impres- 
sive figure. 

'  Mrs.  Boddy's  tramp,'  murmured  Sheila, 
secure  in  the  knowledge  of  having  made  fast 
all  doors  and  windows. 

'  I'll  soon  show  you  whose  'ouse  it  is,' 
promised  the  gentleman  in  the  garden. 

'  Please  go  away,'  Sheila  advised  him. 
'  I'm  sure  you  must  be  ready  for  your  bed.' 

Mrs.  Boddy's  tramp  found  this  well-meant 
counsel  literally  staggering.  He  executed  a 
series  of  curious  plunges,  and  having  described 
a  complete  circle  resumed  his  original  stance. 

'  Oh,  it's  go  away,  is  it  ?  ' 

'  It  really  is,'  Sheila  assured  him.  *  I'm 
too  tired  to  entertain  a  strayed  reveller.  Please 
go  away.  I'm  going  to  shut  the  window.' 

'  Oh,  it's  shut  the  window,  is  it  ?  .  .  .' 
enquired  the  strange  gentleman,  in  a  slightly 
more  conciliatory  tone.  '  'Oose  window  ? 
Answer  me  that.' 

But  the  spirit  of  nonsense  in  Sheila  had 
tired  itself  out.  She  withdrew  into  the  room, 
and  when  the  voice  broke  loose  again  from 
its  owner's  control,  she  began  to  feel  impatient. 


288        THE     HOUSE    AT     MAADI 

Presently  this  nuisance  would  waken  Rose- 
mary, and  perhaps  even  frighten  her.  This 
fear  sent  her  quickly  back  to  the  window. 

'  If  you  don't  go  away  at  once  my  husband 
will  fetch  a  policeman.' 

'I'm  a  Nopper  by  trade,'  continued  the 
visitor,  unaccountably  and  savagely  hurling 
his  cap  on  the  ground.  '  Can't  I  turn  me 
head  a  minute  without  a  mob  like  you  stealing 
the  'ouse  off  me  back  ?  Answer  me  that.' 

The  serene  little  figure  of  Rosemary  sat  up 
suddenly  in  bed. 

'  Who's  that  shouting  to  you,  Sheila  ?  ' 

'  The  gentleman's  a  hopper,  dear.  Go  to 
sleep  again,  like  a  good  girl.' 

'  I  don't  like  him,'  said  Rosemary.  '  Tell 
Mr.  Hopper  to  go  away.' 

Sheila  shut  the  window  ;  and  after  a  while 
the  visitor  withdrew,  leaving  behind  him  a  dirty 
cloth  cap  and  the  germ  of  a  new  mythology. 

In  the  morning  Rosemary  found  inscrutable 
but  sufficient  cause  to  reverse  her  condemn- 
ation of  Mr.  Hopper.  She  spent  the  odd 
moments  of  the  next  day  embellishing  the  ideal 
portrait  that  her  surprising  young  fancy  had 
drawn.  At  breakfast  Mr.  Hopper  was  a  nice 
large  gentleman  ;  by  lunchtime  he  was  wearing 
blue  spectacles,  had  developed  a  taste  for 


THE     HOUSE    AT    MAADI        289 

sponge  fingers,  and  was  clad  in  a  velvet  jacket, 
like  Edward's,  with  cavernous  pockets  contain- 
ing a  clockwork  train  and  a  woolly-pated  black 
doll.  The  next  day  he  mysteriously  acquired 
a  brown  beard  and  a  pair  of  spotty  trousers 
similar  to  those  of  a  certain  harlequin  prominent 
among  Rosemary's  cherished  memories,  and 
before  the  week  was  out  he  was  provided  with 
a  Botticelli  halo  that  added  sanctity  to  an  already 
distinguished  appearance.  Stories  of  his  won- 
derful doings  began  to  circulate  :  how  he 
had  travelled  in  a  train  to  the  City  to  buy 
feeding-bottles  for  Rosemary's  children  ;  how 
his  several  mothers  (a  generic  term  that  included 
wives)  had  had  to  physic  his  cough  ;  and  how 
bravely  he  could  ride  elephants.  Mr.  Hopper 
had  various  secondary  designations  :  some- 
times he  was  known  as  the  man  with  a  lot  of 
mothers  (a  distinction  he  perhaps  derived 
from  Bluebeard)  ;  sometimes,  more  tersely,  as 
'  my  friend  '  ;  and  sometimes  as  Poker  Mor- 
gan's father.  In  short  Mr.  Hopper  was 
canonized  ;  Mr.  Hopper  became  a  legend. 
He  went  triumphantly  upon  his  swaggering, 
nonsensical,  polygamous,  but  none  the  less 
kindly  way  in  Rosemary's  mind,  a  figure  of 
flaming  glory  and  infinite  adaptability  ;  until 
abruptly,  and  without  pity,  she  tired  of  him 
and  turned  to  other  joys. 


S.E. 


290        THE     HOUSE    AT     MAADI 

On  Sunday  morning  she  was  taken,  for  the 
first  time,  to  church  ;  whence  she  returned 
consumingly  curious.  To  Sheila,  who  had 
hoped  for  no  more  than  a  vague  aesthetic 
enjoyment,  the  ceremony  had  been  disappoint- 
ing. She  felt  unequal  to  explaining  why 
Rosemary  must  on  no  account  bestow  the 
big  pockets  and  spotty  trousers  of  her  generous 
imagination  upon  members  of  the  Holy  Trinity, 
whose  names  the  little  girl  had  fatally  remem- 
bered. But  blasphemy  being  so  clearly 
imminent,  Sheila  addressed  herself  with  a 
sigh  to  the  task  of  averting  it. 

'  Jesus,  dear,  was  the  name  of  a  real  person, 
someone  who  really  lived.  Not  like  Mr. 
Hopper.' 

Rosemary's  intense  dark  eyes  grew  pro- 
foundly reproachful.  This  lapse  from  poetic 
faith  on  the  part  of  so  skilled  a  fellow-artist 
as  Sheila  was  terrible.  It  was  as  though 
the  whole  beautiful  city  of  pretence  was 
threatened  with  hostile  invasion. 

*  But  Mr.  Hopper  is  real  too,'  Rosemary 
said,  with  quivering  lip. 

'  Of  course  he  is,'  agreed  Sheila  hastily. 
'  How  silly  of  me  !  But  he  is  different. 
You  mustn't  mix  him  up  with  these  others.' 

When  some  working  agreement  in  this 
delicate  matter  had  been  reached,  they  went 


THE     HOUSE    AT    MAADI        291 

to  the  beach  together  to  dig  sand  castles  and 
tell  each  other  stories  :  an  idyllic  experience, 
type  of  many  shared  during  this  magical 
holiday. 


Then  upon  the  smooth  sands  of  this  quietude 
Terror  planted  his  ugly  hoof.  Rosemary  was 
seized  with  illness.  Unaccountably,  in  spite 
of  Sheila's  lavish  care,  she  had  caught  a 
dangerous  chill. 

Sheila  locked  up  the  house,  and  ran,  already 
feverish  with  anxiety,  to  Mrs.  Boddy.  She 
arrived  breathless,  to  find  that  amiable  woman 
with  her  arms  up  to  the  elbows  in  soapy 
water. 

'  It's  Rosemary — she's  ill,'  gasped  Sheila. 
'  Please  fetch  someone  quickly.'  She  dropped 
into  the  nearest  chair,  breathing  hard. 

The  red  hands  leaped  out  of  the  wash- 
tub  and  were  rubbed  on  an  immaculate  white 
apron. 

'  Pore  lamb  ! '  cried  Mrs.  Boddy.  '  What's 
wrong  with  her  ?  ' 

Sheila  was  now  upon  her  feet  again,  her 
breath  recovered.  '  I  don't  quite  know.  She 
caught  cold  yesterday.  I  doctored  her  as 
best  I  could.  But  this  morning  she 's  worse 


292        THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

— breathing  badly  and  almost  delirious.  Please 
go  at  once.  She's  alone  in  the  house — I'm 
going  back.' 

The  vision  of  the  sick  child  calling  in 
vain  for  its  mother  stabbed  Sheila  to  an  impos- 
sible speed.  After  running  a  few  hundred 
yards  she  was  overtaken  and  picked  up  by  a 
man  driving  a  trap. 

Back  in  the  cottage,  '  I  must  keep  calm. 
I  mustn't  lose  control  of  myself,'  she  urged 
upon  her  wildly  beating  heart  ;  and  she 
climbed  the  stairs  trying  not  to  be  terrified 
by  the  deathly  silence  of  the  place.  When 
she  opened  the  bedroom  door  she  could 
hear  the  sawing  noise  of  the  child's  breathing, 
and  fear  laid  a  cold  finger  on  her  brain  :  could 
that  be  what  they  called  the  death-rattle  ? 

'  Ah,'  she  said,  half-aloud,  '  if  I  lose  my 
nerve  I  shall  be  useless  to  her  in  her  greatest 
need.'  And,  deciding  that  she  could  do 
no  more,  she  forced  herself  to  sit  down  and 
await  with  iron  patience  the  doctor's  coming. 
She  wondered  whether  she  would  do  wrong 
if  she  opened  the  window  she  had  in  her 
first  panic  shut.  The  room  was  unbearably 
stuffy.  *  Pure  air  must  be  better  than  bad,' 
she  told  herself ;  and  unfastened  the  catch. 
The  garden  seemed  full  of  sunshine  and 
birds  and  the  smell  of  honeysuckle. 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 


293 


She  turned  her  head  at  the  sound  of  steps 
on  the  stairs.  *  At  last  !  ' 

A  commanding  and  resolute  female  figure 
appeared  in  the  doorway  :  Edward's  sister, 
Hypatia. 

4  Well,  Sheila,'  said  Hypatia,  humorously 
grim.  '  You  keep  open  house,  I  see.' 

Sheila  stared,  unable  and  uncaring  to  hide 
her  disappointment.  '  Oh,  you  mean  my 
leaving  the  front  door  open.  That's  for  the 
doctor.' 

Hypatia  stepped  into  the  room.  '  Some- 
thing's wrong.'  Her  tone  became  gentle  as 
her  glance  fell  upon  Rosemary.  '  Rosemary 
—she's  ill  ?  ' 

'  Yes  .  .  .  Rosemary.'  Sheila's  voice  lin- 
geringly  caressed  the  name. 

'  Poor  little  kid,'  Hypatia  murmured.  *  What 
is  it  ?  ' 

In  an  undertone  Sheila  began  repeating 
her  simple  story.  '  Oh,  I  do  wish  the  doctor 
would  come  1 '  she  broke  off.  *  It  may  be 
pneumonia  or  something  even  more  dreadful.' 

Instantly  forgetting  Hypatia,  she  paced 
to  the  door  and  began  running  downstairs. 
And  at  that  moment  a  trap  drew  up  out- 
side the  house,  and  the  doctor  entered,  fol- 
lowed at  a  respectful  distance  by  Mrs.  Boddy. 
He  was  a  tall  curvilinear  man  with  a  stoop 


294        THE     HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

and  an  air  of  intense  preoccupation.  With 
a  perfunctory  response  to  Sheila's  eager  greet- 
ing he  followed  her  upstairs.  Furtively,  with 
eyes  veiling  mistrust,  she  watched  him  approach 
the  bedside. 

Twenty  seconds  later  her  feelings  towards 
him  had  totally  changed.  He  won  her  heart 
by  the  smile  that  flickered  for  a  moment  in 
his  face  at  first  sight  of  his  patient,  and  by 
the  gentleness  with  which  he  unclasped  Rose- 
mary's fingers  from  the  woolly  bear  that  her 
arm  embraced.  Sheila  gave  herself  to  the 
answering  of  his  professional  questions. 

Her  fears  a  little  stilled  by  the  doctor's 
reassurances,  she  surrendered  to  Hypatia's 
importunity  by  withdrawing  with  her  into 
the  garden  for  a  few  moments. 

'  Now,  Sheila,  my  dear,'  Hypatia  urged, 
taking  her  arm  with  a  sisterly  caressing, 
'  you're  not  to  worry.  Worry's  fatal.  The 
kid's  going  to  get  well  quite  soon/ 

'  Do  you  really  think  so  ? '  asked  Sheila, 
pathetically  eager. 

Hypatia  feigned  exasperated  wonder.  '  Well, 
I'm  dashed  !  '  she  exclaimed,  in  the  old  school- 
girl tone  of  nearly  forty  years  ago.  '  What's 
the  good  of  calling  in  a  doctor  and  paying 
him  ridiculous  fees  if  you  don't  believe  what 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        295 

he  tells  you  ?     Didn't  Mr.  New  Moon  say 
she'd  be  out  of  bed  in  a  fortnight  ? ' 

'With  care,'  supplemented  Sheila,  on  whose 
brain  the  doctor's  words  were  indelibly  written. 

'  Of  course,  with  care.  Without  care  we 
should  all  come  to  grief.' 

Sheila  faintly  smiled.  '  Do  you  remember 
when  you  so  hotly  denied  the  reality  of  sin, 
sickness,  and  death  ? ' 

'  Ah,  that's  long  ago,'  said  Hypatia  good- 
humouredly.  '  I've  had  a  varied  career  since 
then.  Still,  we  live  and  learn.' 

'  What's  the  latest  ? '  asked  Sheila. 

4  The  latest  ? ' 

'  The  latest  religious  nostrum.' 

'  Back  in  the  fold  for  a  time.'  Hypatia 
seemed  to  enjoy  the  new-found  pleasure  of 
poking  fun  at  herself.  '  Do  you  remember 
Herbert  Spencer,  Sheila  ?  But  one  can't 
rest  there.  For  me  it's  Woman  Suffrage 
now.  It's  got  to  come.  And  I'm  reading 
Butler  again.  Good  stuff.  Life  and  Habit 
especially,  and  Unconscious  Memory.  Jumps 
on  Darwin  for  having  banished  mind  from 
the  universe.  But  you  haven't  asked  me  why 
I've  come  yet.  Aren't  you  surprised  to  see  me  ? ' 

'  Why  have  you  come  ? '  Sheila  asked 
obediently.  *  I'm  very  glad  you  did  come,' 
she  added. 


296        THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

'  I  wonder  if  you  are  really,'  mused  Hypatia. 
*  We've  been  too  polite  to  each  other  since 
we  were  married,  Sheila,  too  polite  to  be  quite 
good  friends.  Never  mind.  I  came  to  say 
good-bye.  Bunny's  got  a  job  in  Cairo.  Some- 
thing to  do  with  irrigation.  The  sort  of  thing 
he  wanted.' 

'  Must  I  congratulate  you  ? '  said  Sheila. 
'  No,  I  won't.  You  two  are  going  to  Egypt, 
and  I  shall  never  see  you  again.  How  very 
unpleasant  of  you.' 

'  I  wish  you  could  come  too.  But  Edward 
couldn't  very  well  move  his  little  pet  idol 
The  Iconoclast  to  Cairo.' 

'  Oh,  that  wouldn't  matter  to  me.'  Sheila 
was  too  weary  to  maintain  a  pretence. 

Hypatia  raised  her  eyebrows.  *  You've 
quarrelled  ?  ' 

'  My  dear  Hypatia,  can  you  imagine  Edward 
being  so  unreasonable  as  to  quarrel  ?  We 
could  part  without  tears,  I  assure  you.  But 
that  doesn't  mean  I  can  come  to  Cairo  with 
you.  There's  Rosemary  to  consider.' 

Hypatia  smiled  grimly.  '  That's  very  thin. 
Go  and  pack  your  trunk  for  Egypt,  Sheila.' 

Conversation  was  cut  short  by  the  arrival 
of  the  doctor. 

*  She  is  already  a  little  more  comfortable,' 
he  assured  Sheila,  '  and  sleeping.'  A  fugitive 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        297 

smile  crossed  his  face.  '  She  is  talking  in  her 
sleep  about  fire-irons,  so  far  as  I  can  make  out. 
A  certain  poker  .  .  .' 

*  Oh,  that's  Poker  Morgan,'  interposed 
Sheila,  happy  at  the  sound  of  so  friendly  a 
name.  *  When  will  you  come  again  ? ' 

'  Mrs.  Boddy  is  with  the  patient.  An 
admirable  person.  I  shall  call  again  to- 
night. Now,  Mrs.  Fairfield,  are  you  a  sensible 
woman  ?  ' 

Sheila,  eagerly  submissive,  hoped  that  she 
was.  *  I'll  do  anything  for  her  that  you  tell 
me.  She's  all  I've  got.' 

'  I'm  sure  you  will,'  he  said.  '  But  if  you're 
a  sensible  woman  you'll  not  be  alarmed  when 
I  suggest  taking  a  second  professional  opinion.' 

'  Please  do,'  begged  Sheila,  who  had  long 
made  a  secret  determination  to  insist  on  such  a 
precaution. 

'  It's  not  that  I'm  afraid  about  the  child. 
But  I'm  a  cautious  man.  And  I've  never 
held  omniscience  to  be  part  of  a  physi- 
cian's equipment.  She  has  had  these  chills 
before  ? ' 

'  Frequently,  but  never  so  badly.' 

'The  nose  and  throat  are  affected,'  said 
the  curving  doctor.  '  She's  acutely  susceptible 
to  cold.  Treacherous  east  winds  about.  Bad 
place,  England,  for  a  constitution  like  hers. 


298        THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

You  should  take  her  to  a  warm  climate  :  warm 
and  dry.' 

With  a  boyish  air  of  having  finished  a 
necessary  recital  he  raised  his  hat  and  began 
picking  his  way  across  the  wilderness  of 
paddock. 

Sheila  glanced  at  her  friend's  face.  Triumph 
danced  in  the  eyes  of  Hypatia. 


PART   THE    FOURTH 

Evening  of  the  Same  Day 

LIP  away  while  you  can,  and  have  a  look 
at  my  Thought  Forms,'  Mr.  Bunnard 
had  urged  the  agitated  young  man  ;  and  by 
politely  acquiescing  Stephen  Redshawe's  son 
had  condemned  himself  to  suffer  a  two  hours' 
mystical  monologue  illustrated  by  coloured 
drawings.  When  they  at  last  emerged  from 
what  the  old  gentleman  termed,  with  accidental 
aptness,  his  den,  the  Egyptian  dark  had  come, 
not  at  one  stride  yet  swiftly,  to  envelop  the 
house  at  Maadi. 

But  the  darkness  of  this  particular  April 
evening  was  but  a  more  exquisite  light  :  day 
seen  through  a  veil  of  mystery,  purged  of  its 
glare.  Moon  shed  her  unearthly  pallor  over 
the  piazza  with  its  pattern  in  ochre  and  green, 
and  silvered  the  leaves  of  the  lebbek  trees  in 
the  garden.  The  intense  dark  blue  of  the  sky 
was  numerously  divided  by  the  fine  mesh  of 
the  mosquito  netting  that  clung  to  the  sup- 

299 


300        THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

porting  white  columns.  When  Rosemary  left 
the  piano  and  sat  down  in  the  deck-chair 
opposite  Redshawe,  only  the  incessant  dry 
rattle  of  crickets  remained  to  make  the  stillness 
musical.  She  came  like  cool  rain  ;  she  seemed 
to  bring  with  her  a  dewy  grace  that  dispelled 
the  languor  wrought  in  him  by  the  too-intoxi- 
cating syringa  ;  and  he  reposed  gratefully  in 
the  unmeasured  comfort  of  her  nearness. 

Redshawe,  dilettante  in  letters,  groped  in  his 
mind  for  a  phrase  that  should  symbolize  the 
baffling  quality  in  her  :  a  quality  as  indefinable 
as  the  fragrance  of  musk-roses.  '  Incarnate 
stillness  '  hovered  for  his  choosing  ;  but  the 
futility  of  his  efforts  becoming  thereby  so 
patent,  he  abandoned  the  search,  quite  rever- 
ently sighing.  Stillness,  silence,  the  very 
spirit  of  quietude,  in  her  became  personal. 
She  had  light  brown  hair  and  olive  skin  ;  she 
was  perhaps  twenty-five  years  old  ;  but  her 
unfathomable  dark  eyes  gazed  from  an  oval 
face  absurdly  angelic  with  the  sublime  gravity 
of  a  child.  With  Mrs.  Bunnard  rasping  on 
one  side  of  him  and  Mr.  Bunnard  chirping  a 
high-pitched  chorus  part  on  the  other,  Red- 
shawe strained  his  ears  to  catch  Rosemary's 
soft  tones.  In  conversation  she  palpitated  an 
innocent  curiosity.  She  focussed  those  twin 
orbs  of  mystery  upon  his  religious  doubts  ; 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        301 

and  not  all  the  mature  intelligence  of  her  argu- 
ments could  obscure  for  him  the  shining  of  her 
angel-infancy.  That  very  phrase  flashed  on 
him  while  they  talked,  an  echo  from  his  reading, 
suggesting  another,  from  the  same  source, 
that  for  a  while  almost  satisfied  his  longing 
for  an  adequate  symbol.  '  A  white  celestial 
thought.'  Yes  :  Rosemary  herself  was  a  white 
celestial  thought. 

'  The  fundamental  cause  of  reincarnation,' 
said  Mrs.  Bunnard  firmly,  '  is,  as  you  know, 
the  lust  for  sentient  life.  Once  we  have  con- 
quered that ' 

'  We  shall  have  reached  a  consummation,' 
interpolated  her  husband,  '  much,  as  Shakes- 
peare says,  to  be  desired.' 

'  The  law  of  periodicity,  Mr.  Redshawe,' 
Mrs.  Bunnard  assured  him, '  is  perfectly  obvious 
and  understandable.  Night  and  day,  life  and 
death,  sleeping  and  waking — all  these  simple 
alternations  are  but  manifestations  of  a  universal 
rhythm.' 

Not  to  be  outdone,  '  The  systole  and  dias- 
tole,' cried  Mr.  Bunnard,  deftly  inserting  a 
smile  and  a  phrase  into  the  manifest  gap,  '  the 
systole  and  diastole  of  the  Cosmic  Heart.' 

Desperately,  like  a  goaded  animal,  '  But 
what,'  asked  Redshawe,  'has  all  this  God- 
throb  .  .' 


302        THE     HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

A  surprising  ripple  of  laughter  arrested  his 
question  and  drew  his  eyes  back  to  Rosemary. 
Sheila  came  generously  to  the  rescue  and  dis- 
tracted to  herself  the  enemy's  fire.  In  a  little 
while  Mrs.  Bunnard  withdrew  to  her  bedroom 
with  the  announced  intention  of  meditating  ; 
and  the  battle  raged  less  furiously  between  the 
two  remaining  elders  :  so  healingly  less  that 
Redshawe  had  a  beatific  sense  of  being  alone 
in  the  universe  with  his  divinity. 

He  plunged  deeply  into  the  cool  waters  of 
her  elusive  beauty,  and  they  talked  eagerly, 
yet  with  harmonious  pauses  .  .  .  until  he 
chanced  to  see  that  on  the  third  finger  of  her 
left  hand  she  wore  a  plain  gold  ring. 

Too  desperately  stricken  to  pay  another 
moment's  homage  to  his  ideal  English  reticence, 
he  in  effect  ran  like  a  hurt  child  to  Rosemary's 
mother  by  contriving  an  early  opportunity  of 
solitary  speech  with  her.  He  the  more  readily 
exposed  his  wound  to  Sheila  because  he  now 
perceived  what  until  the  shattering  to  bits  of 
his  fool's  paradise  had  been  beyond  his  vision  : 
that  Sheila  too  was  suffering. 

*  She's  married  ! '  he  protested  to  her. 

'  Rosemary  ?  '  she  wearily  answered 
him. 

*  Rosemary,  of  course,'  he  cried,  forgetting 


THE     HOUSE    AT    MAADI        303 

both  patience  and  ceremony.  '  You  didn't  tell 
me.' 

'  I  didn't  tell  you  ? '  Sheila  repeated  in 
astonishment. 

Flushed  and  gloomy,  he  made  equine  plunges 
towards  the  explanation  he  considered  so 
superfluous. 

'  Well,  didn't  you  know  ?  Of  course,  you 
must  have  known.  Yet  how  should  you  ?  ' 

'  Know  !  '  echoed  Sheila.  '  Know  that  she 
was  married  ?  ' 

'  No,  no.'  Impatiently  he  shook  the  sugges- 
tion away.  '  What  it  means  to  me — you  must 
have  known  that  ?  ' 

*  My  poor  boy  !  What  does  it  mean  to 
you  ? ' 

They  stared  at  each  other  with  troubled  eyes. 

'  Everything,'  answered  his  helpless  gesture. 

Her  face  contracted  with  pain.  She  bowed 
her  head.  With  pain,  swifdy,  she  bowed  her 
head.  For  one  terrible  moment  he  thought 
she  was  going  to  weep. 

He  put  his  arm  round  her  shoulders. 

'  It  must  be  much  worse  for  you,'  he  said 
vaguely,  wishing  to  help.  Already  he  knew 
dimly  that  he,  being  young,  would  forget  some 
day. 

She  moved  gently  away  from  him.  '  But 
we  mustn't  be  tragic,  must  we  ? '  she  said, 


304        THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

trying   to   smile.     '  You   don't   quite   under- 
stand.' 

*  I  understand  something,'  he  pleaded,  lest 
his  sympathy  should   be  repulsed.     '  So  very 
little,    but    something.     I've    loved    her    for 
weeks  .  .  .  but  she  must  be  infinitely  more 
to  you.' 

*  I  wasn't  thinking  of  Rosemary,'  said  Sheila. 
'  Please  don't  look  quite  like  that,'  she  almost 
passionately  added. 

He  trod  the  fringe  of  the  incomprehensible. 
'  Ah,  you  were  thinking  .  .  .  My  way  of 
speaking  perhaps  reminded  you  .  .  .' 

*  I  was  thinking  of  Rosemary's  father,'  Sheila 
abruptly  assured  him.     *  And  so  you  are  in 
love  with  my  daughter,  are  you  ?  '     She  spoke 
almost  coldly.     '  Would  you  think  me  very 
bitter  if  I  congratulated  you  on  losing  her  ?  ' 

His  face  was  all  question. 
'  She  would  have  broken  your  heart.     She 
is  very  hard  to  those  that  love  her.' 

*  Hard  1 '     His  tone  was  almost  scornful  in 
its  incredulity.     *  With  the  face  of  an  angel 
and  the  wondering  eyes  of  a  child  ! ' 

'  Yes.  Have  you  never  seen  a  child  pick 
wings  off  flies  ?  Rosemary  is  still  a  child. 
Enchanting.  Sweet  beyond  words.  But  with 
a  child's  incapacity  for  love.' 

'  But  she's  married  \  ' 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        305 

'  Yes,'  Sheila  answered,  with  dreadful  serenity. 
'  She  was  married  this  afternoon,  when  I  sup- 
posed her  to  be  at  the  Lodge  with  her  aunt. 
She  dropped  in  somewhere  to  be  married,  and 
picked  up  Hypatia  on  the  way  home.' 

'  But  .  .  .'     Redshawe  was  helpless. 

'  Oh,  I  knew  it  must  come  soon.  She  had 
been  engaged  for  some  years.' 

'  May  I  ask  to  whom  ?  ' 

'  The  Reverend  Oliver  Wendell  Brunt,  an 
American  gentleman.' 

Redshawe  paced  the  room.  '  And  where 
in  thunder  is  he  ?  ' 

'  On  his  knees,  no  doubt,  invoking  God's 
blessing  on  his  work  in  China.  He  is  a 
missionary.  They  leave  to-morrow  together. 
They've  just  had  the  call  from  God  and  must 
obey  at  once.  Rosemary  has  apologized  very 
nicely  for  her  eccentricity.  She  was  afraid  I 
might  make  a  fuss,  and  cry  at  the  ceremony  ; 
so  she  arranged  it  this  way.  And  she  just 
doesn't  understand  what  it  all  means  to  me.' 

'  What  an  inhuman  crowd  they  are  !  '  mut- 
tered Redshawe.  And  he  gasped  to  recall 
Rosemary's  serene  bearing,  her  untroubled 
beauty,  her  lucid  reasoning,  her  faultless  render- 
ing of  Scriabine,  and  the  placid  prattle  of  her 
uncle  and  aunt.  An  incredible  household. 

Silence  fell  between  them. 


8.E. 


306        THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI 

*  Forgive   me,    Mrs.    Fairfield,'    broke   out 
Redshawe   after  a  while.     '  I  shouldn't  have 
blundered  in  with  my  self-pity.     But  mine  isn't 
a  boyish  fancy  or  any  rot  of  that  kind.     To  me 
she   is  just   pure   beauty.     I've   always   wor- 
shipped beauty.     I  could  have  poured  out  my 
life  like  wine  at  her  feet.' 

*  And  to  me,'  said  Sheila,  '  she  was  a  little 
helpless   thing   that  fumbled   at   my   breasts. 
She's  been  my  whole  life  for  twenty-six  years. 
I  waited  for  her  coming  as  for  the  coming  of 
God.  .  .  .     Let's  go  in  :    they'll  be  waiting 
supper  for  us  !  ' 

Sadly,  '  Life  seems  to  promise  so  much,' 
Redshawe  began,  with  the  unique  solemnity 
of  adolescence.  '  Beauty  stands  in  the  door- 
way and  beckons  .  .  .  and  when  we  follow 
she's  vanished.' 

(  Lucky  boy  !  '  with  a  wan  smile  Sheila  said 
to  him.  '  You'll  be  busy  writing  lyrics  about 
this  to-morrow.' 

The  door  opened  noiselessly,  and  in  the 
doorway,  two  slender  white  fingers  resting  on 
the  handle,  stood  Rosemary,  lightly  poised  on 
her  toes  as  though  for  celestial  flight.  Her 
eyes  sparkled  with  an  almost  stellar  radiance  ; 
her  cheeks  were  delicately  flushed,  and  her  lips 
a  little  parted,  like  the  petals  of  an  awakening 
rosebud.  Redshawe,  abashed  at  the  memory 


THE    HOUSE    AT    MAADI        307 

of  having  criticized  her  for  inhumanity,  wor- 
shipped once  more  her  divinity,  lapsed  into 
mute  adoration  ;  and  Sheila  held  her  breath, 
telling  herself  :  '  I  may  never  see  her  stand 
like  that  again.' 

'  Supper's  ready,  mother.  I'm  sure  you're 
both  hungry.'  The  words  did  but  tremble  in 
the  air  for  a  moment,  and  then  became  no 
more  than  an  imperishable  memory  for  mother 
and  lover. 

4  Do  let  me  take  you  in,  Mrs.  Fairfield,' 
said  Redshawe,  affectionately,  compassionately 
gallant  ;  and  as  Sheila,  a  little  tremulous  but 
gravely  mistress  of  herself,  took  the  arm  he 
offered,  *  Thank  you,  my  dear,'  she  rewarded 
him.  But  in  her  heart  she  was  saying  :  '  The 
last  supper.' 


